The Harpsichordist
by Lowlands Girl
Summary: [pre HBP] [complete and revised] Luke Navarra is invited to teach music at Hogwarts... but he's a Muggle. Will he survive Slytherin House?
1. Let's Start at the Very Beginning

**Chapter 1: Let's Start at the Very Beginning**

"Luke, there's a letter for you," said Wendy as she closed the door. She slipped off her shoes and, sighing with relief, padded into the living room. "Luke?" she called.

The distant sound of music told her he probably hadn't heard her call, much less the fact that she was even home from school. She stretched briefly and, setting Luke's letter and the rest of the mail on the coffee table, went to the bathroom to wash up. A few minutes later, she was back in the living room, settled on the sofa, riffling again through the mail.

Apart from Luke's letter, which looked personal, there was nothing of much interest. A dozen overdue notices from the University library, the phone bill, and several credit card offers. The junk went into the recycling, the phone bill onto a large stack of things needed attention, and the letter stayed on the table for Luke to read.

The music coming from the back room of their cottage stopped. A moment later Luke entered the living room, flexing his fingers. "Hey," he said, by way of greeting, and kissed her lightly on the lips. "How was your day?"

"It was okay," Wendy replied. "First day of classes stuff. Reading lists, office hours, study groups." She shrugged. "Stuff."

"Wish I was taking classes," Luke said gloomily. He plopped down on the sofa next to her.

"Well, apply again next year. At least you're getting a chance to practice; I never have any time."

"We'll see," he said noncommittally.

Wendy felt her anger rising slightly, but didn't say anything. Luke had lots of talent -- gobs and gobs of it -- as well as dedication to his music, but he never put himself forward. Though it made him the most humble person she knew, it hampered him in performance, since he went all shy in front of other people and became boring and stammery.

It also meant that he hated auditioning. Both of them had applied to the university for graduate studies, but while Wendy had gotten in on the merit of her papers and a halfway decent audition, Luke had suffered his worst case of nerves ever: He'd stammered all the way through his interview and completely botched his audition. Wendy almost groaned in memory. But Luke could re-apply next year, and she was trying to get her hopes up.

"You got the mail?" he asked.

"On my way in," she replied, then pointed at the letter on the table. "For you."

"Who's it from?" he asked, leaning forward to pick up the letter.

"Didn't see," she replied. "It looked personal."

"I don't know anyone with this handwriting," he said, his tone curious. "Could just be junk, you know, they sometimes make the printing look like..." His voice trailed off as he opened the letter.

"Hmm?" asked Wendy sleepily. She was curled against the arm of the sofa, eyes half-closed. Luke stayed silent, so she reluctantly sat up. "What is it?" she asked.

Luke suddenly jumped up and gave a loud "Yeehaw!" of excitement.

"What is it?" she asked again.

He kept dancing. "Yes!" He was grinning wildly. "Yahoo! Yippee!"

"Luke!" she shouted.

He just pointed to the letter and kept jumping up and down in excitement, waving his arms over his head maniacally.

Wendy picked up the letter and opened it, noting briefly that the paper was of a wonderful thickness and that the ink was green.

_Hogwarts School  
Scotland_

Dear Mr Navarra,

We are pleased to offer you the position as Professor of Music at Hogwarts School. Though we are not a conservatory, we have recently added music to our electives and are in need of a professor. A representative from our school will be calling at your place of residence shortly to discuss the matter with you.

Hogwarts caters to an unusual group of students, though I am sure that you will find it quite enjoyable.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster

  
Hermione Granger wanted to be perfect. She knew this was a problem, but it was the only goal that she felt was worthy of her. She knew how smart she was. She knew how talented a witch she was. She also knew that Ron Weasley was a complete idiot when it came to girls.

Hermione, Ron, his sister Ginny, and Harry Potter were all sitting by the fire at The Burrow. It was a week to go until school started, and the Weasleys had once again offered to host Harry and Hermione. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had already gone to bed, leaving the teenagers downstairs. Hermione was finishing a letter to Viktor, and Ron had just asked, "So how's Vicky?"

"He's fine, thanks," said Hermione stiffly. "And don't call him Vicky!"

"I'll call him what I want! And why are you still writing to him?" Ron persisted.

"Because he's my friend," Hermione replied. "Why do you care? Anyone would think you're jealous," she added.

"Me? Jealous of that git? What for?" Ron said casually, but his ears were turning red.

Hermione looked over at Harry for support, but his eyes were fixed determinedly on the broomstick he was polishing.

Hermione turned back to Ron. "Oh, I don't know," she replied acidly. It was amazing, the way Ron made her go from calm to completely peeved with a few choice comments. "You tell me, then, why you suddenly hated him when he asked me to the Yule Ball with him fourth year. Or why you tore apart his figurine that evening?"

"Well, I -- I -- " Ron bumbled. "I mean, he could be a Death Eater! You don't know anything about him except that he's a Quidditch star and he went to Durmstrang!"

"His mother is Muggle-born," Hermione said. "I don't think he's a Death Eater. And I know a lot more about him than his Quidditch team and his school."

Ron's face was now completely red. "But he's too old for you! He's what? Nineteen, twenty? And -- "

"He's twenty."

"Right," said Ron dismissively. "He's too old for you. You're not even seventeen! Who knows what he wants from a girl like you?"

"You sound like my mother," Hermione retorted. "And I'll be seventeen in less than a month," she said. Then she sighed and shook her head. She was tired of this argument. Hermione was friends with Viktor, good friends, and enjoyed their correspondence. She wasn't going to give that up just to satisfy Ron. Besides, Ron already had her to himself, really. She was best friends with him and Harry and spent loads of time with them. Why did Ron have to be so dense?

"I'm going to bed," announced Harry suddenly, collecting his broomstick and polish.

"Me, too," said Ron, shooting her an unreadable look. "I'll leave Hermione to her 'penpal.'"

Ginny, who had stayed silent through the whole thing, waited until the two boys were up the stairs before laughing. She then burst into a fit of the giggles, rolling around on the floor with melodramatic mirth. "P-poor Ron," she gasped. "He doesn't know what's hit him, does he?"

"I guess not," replied Hermione. "It's as bad as some Harlequin romance."

"What?"

"It's a Muggle thing. Really cheesy love stories about manly men and womanly women. Bad plotlines, even worse writing. And the boy always gets the girl in the end. Cute, but totally worthless."

"And how does my brother remind you of these stories? He's not exactly a manly man."

"Oh, he's all right," Hermione said absently. "But I feel like the girl who's caught her fish, but the fish doesn't know it yet."

"Like that horrible Hobgoblins song," Ginny said, giggling again. "You know, the one Luna's always quoting?" She started singing:

_"Oh, yesterday I went a-fishing,  
to escape my life  
Then I saw what life was dishing,  
And so I met my wife..."_

Hermione laughed. "You've got a nice voice," she added.

"Thanks," said Ginny. "Mum's always wanted me to get training, but we could never afford it."

"There might be someone in Hogsmeade who could teach you," suggested Hermione.

"But how would I pay for it?" asked Ginny without embarrassment. "Mum and Dad are still pretty tight, even though it's just me and Ron at school. Percy and Penelope are going to move in soon, and Penelope's expecting."

"Oh, I didn't know that!" Hermione exclaimed. "That's wonderful!"

"That's why they got married," said Ginny mischievously. "Or so George told me. Who knows what they hear on those Extendable Ears?"

"Well," was all Hermione could say. They sat in companionable silence for a while, gazing at the fire.

"I still think you should get voice lessons," Hermione said eventually. "My grandmother was a famous singer in her day, and she always told me that the best thing her parents had ever done was push her to take lessons in school."

"Hmm," Ginny replied. She yawned and blinked a few times. "Well, it's late, I should be asleep. 'Night, Hermione."

"G'night, Ginny. I'll be up in a bit, I guess."

Hermione realized that the room was completely empty, and suddenly felt very alone. She wanted to cry. She was tired of Ron not noticing his own noticing her, tired of the Weasleys being too poor to do what they wanted, tired of always having to be perfect... Well, now was not the time to blubber. They were leaving for Hogwarts in another week, and she should probably add another few inches to the Arithmancy essay...

Hermione took a deep breath and headed up to bed.

"You cannot possibly -- " blustered Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. He clutched his bowler hat in his sweaty fingers, leaving creases in the fabric.

"I already have, Minister," replied Albus Dumbledore, completely unruffled. "The letter has been owled, and I've sent someone to his home to speak with him immediately."

The Minister for Magic was not happy to be visiting Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry today. He had been called by that overly eager Weasley boy at a depressingly early hour of the morning with the most outrageous message, and, despite his attempts to ignore it as much as possible, it simply had to be dealt with. Not to mention how rash Dumbledore was being about the whole thing.

"But -- " Fudge started, then began again. "Albus, he's a Muggle! Merlin's beard, how do you expect him to survive here? We have enough problems already, with Lord -- Thingy."

"The more you insist on not naming him, the more power you give him, Cornelius," replied Dumbledore with infuriating calmness, reaching across his desk for a small tin. "Peppermint humbug?" he offered.

"No thanks, Albus," said Fudge rudely. "I want to get this matter settled now." He pushed his chair back and stood up. Placing his hands on the edge of Dumbledore's desk, he leaned forward in an attempt to look imposing. "I see no reason to start up this class in the first place! It won't fit in the syllabus. And furthermore," he added, trying to deepen his voice and give it authority, "it is absolutely absurd to have a Muggle teaching at Hogwarts. It simply isn't done. I just can't allow you to -- "

"Must I remind you that it was established last June how much power the Ministry has over Hogwarts?" Dumbledore spoke quietly and kindly.

Fudge's could feel veins throbbing in his temples. "There is no need to remind me, Dumbledore," he said through gritted teeth.

The memory of Dolores Umbridge's failure was still fresh and raw. The woman had been an excellent informant on Dumbledore's machinations, and also a very good way to keep that Potter boy out of trouble. Though Fudge was cooperating with the whole You-Know-Who thing, he wasn't going to let an eccentric old fool like Albus Dumbledore, powerful wizard though he was, completely ruin his vision of a proper wizarding world. And that vision certainly did not allow Muggles to teach Music in a Magic school!

Fudge's inner monologue caught him off guard for a moment before he continued. "I know you'll do what you like no matter what I say," he said as fiercely as he dared. "I just don't like it. Mark my words, it will be a complete failure. The man will have to have his memory modified by the end of next week -- unless the students hex him into mush first."

And with that, Fudge turned and left the office.

Dumbledore watched Cornelius Fudge go with a trace of sadness. He knew what Fudge was, knew that the man's love of blood purity was his only true fault. He could not be blamed for stupidity, nor could he be blamed for falling in love with power. Hadn't Dumbledore himself fallen for the same temptation? Wasn't he staying with the school for the very same reasons that Fudge wanted to stay Minister? And yet...

Dumbledore sighed. Why couldn't the man open his mind a little more; why couldn't he see that, unless they mingled more with Muggles, the entire race would die out?

Dumbledore could remember his own time as a student, before Voldemort, and even before Grindelwald. Back then, there had been thousands of students at the school, over five hundred students to a house, and many more professors. More opportunities to mix with other people, to learn a whole host of subjects no longer offered at the school. Why had it gone wrong? And when?

Somehow, in the days of Grindelwald's ascent in the thirties and forties, the Wizarding community had clammed up in fear. The Muggles had been making great strides in their own technology, which was, to many, threatening. Old families, afraid of feeling inferior, had seized upon their own heritage as a reason to feel superior -- for no longer did witches and wizards have such an incredible advantage over the Muggles simple by their magical power. The Muggles could shoot them, kill them with atomic power, point out to them the impossibilities of what magic accomplishes. What greater threat could there be than an age of unbelief?

Dumbledore absently reached for another peppermint and scratched his beard thoughtfully.

Well, no matter now, he thought. What Fudge thought couldn't be helped, and no matter what the blustery little man did, the school would stand up for Dumbledore. Through all trials and tribulations, through changes and adjustments, Hogwarts would always acknowledge him.

Severus Snape scowled at his reflection in the storefront glass. He hated Muggle clothing. It chafed and restricted, and, most importantly, showed everything. There was no bodily privacy in these -- what had Dumbledore called them? -- right, jeans. And even the shirt he was wearing felt like nothing more than a second skin. He could feel his muscles rub against the fabric as he walked, and scowled again.

But he had to admit he looked good.

Except for the hair. And he wasn't the sort to fuss over his hair, not like some he could think of.

Severus paused to check the address Dumbledore had given him. 2317A Spaulding Avenue. Well, here was Spaulding Avenue. So where was...? Ah, yes, across the street he could see a "2344 Spaulding" in large red letters across a faded yellow awning that led to the door of a tall square building, with identical windows set all across its front and sides. And to his right was a small building labeled, "2337 Spaulding." Next to it, further down, was "2333," another large building. So, if Muggles were at all logical... and there it was. He snorted softly to himself. Maybe they weren't as stupid as he'd thought.

As he pushed open the gate of 2317, he noticed that the fence was quite crooked and worn, and that the drab bushes in the front yard seemed quite desperate for any sort of attention -- whether with a hose-pipe or pruning shears didn't matter. A small sign just behind the gate read "2317A and B" and had an arrow pointing around to the back.

Severus's boots crunched the gravel path that led to a small backyard cottage. The flowers outside this building seemed slightly better watered than the poor specimens out front, but no more trimmed than Hagrid's beard. He did notice, however, a faint sense of cheeriness about the place, and felt his spirits, if not lighten, at least become less gloomy. Then he remembered that the man was a Muggle, and scowled.

All too soon he was at the front door, his hand raised to knock. After a moment's hesitation, he rapped sharply on the door twice.

"Coming!" called a woman's voice from the interior. It sounded startled, but eager. Severus wondered, not for the first time, why he had let Dumbledore talk him into doing this.

The door opened, and a woman with brown hair and green eyes smiled at him. "Yes?" she asked politely.

The woman was very pretty, Severus thought. Very, very pretty. Green eyes with more than a hint of intelligence and clarity -- brown hair that caught glints of the setting sun - and a small but curvy mouth that was open slightly, showing two slightly larger than average front teeth.

He came back to himself with a start. Ogling the Muggles was not acceptable. "Is Mr. Navarra home?" he asked. "I'm Professor Severus Snape from Hogwarts School."

The woman smiled, and Severus wondered why he couldn't stop looking at her mouth. "Oh, come on in. Would you like some coffee?" she asked. "Or tea, you British prefer tea, don't you?" She hurried off towards the interior of the cottage after closing the door behind Severus. "Luke!" she called. "There's a Professor Snape here -- he's from Hogwarts!"

"Already?" came a man's voice. It sounded nervous. "But the letter just got here -- "

"Yes, already. Come on!" She turned back to Severus and gestured towards the sofa. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Luke's coming. Would you like anything to drink?" she asked again.

"No, thank you," he replied brusquely. "I'd like to keep this short."

She went silent, thankfully.

Severus took a long look around the room as he sat gingerly on the sofa. It was nowhere near as gaudy as he'd come to expect from Muggles -- especially American Muggles. The furniture was mostly wood and natural canvas, and there was a large solid-looking desk against one wall. There was an impressive rack of electronic devices that Arthur Weasley would have paid a hundred Galleons to get his hands on, as well as multiple electric lights, which the woman was switching on as darkness settled in. She moved very gracefully -- rather like Minerva McGonagall in some ways, always confident of where she was going and how to get there, but very comfortable in her movements.

No, she didn't move like that. She moved like a Muggle, and it didn't matter. Severus stared at his hands.

He looked up when he heard a small noise of feet coming down the hall, and watched as a man entered the room. Luke Navarra was of average height, though thin, and hunched forward slightly with an annoying self-effacement.

"Professor," he said, extending a hand. "Thank you for coming."

Severus shook the man's hand as briefly as he could without being impolite. "Mr. Navarra."

Luke Navarra sat down on the edge of one of the chairs, trying to look comfortable and failing.

"I assume you received the letter?" Severus said without preamble.

"Yes," said Navarra. "It sounds wonderful, uh, Professor," he continued with a swallow, "though I do have a few questions."

"Of course."

If Mr Navarra was startled by Severus' calm, he didn't show it. "Well, first, I'd like to know how you heard of me. I'm not exactly a big name in the industry, you know, and -- "

"Davitt Moroney gave us your name," Severus interrupted, "when the Headmaster inquired for a music teacher."

"I see," Navarra said slowly. "I'm surprised he remembers me from all his students, but... never mind." He was clearly a little startled. He continued nonetheless. "And, secondly, well, I have to ask -- what's the salary?"

"I'm not sure of the conversion rates exactly," said Severus, glad for the moment that the man undoubtedly thought he meant pounds to dollars, not Galleons to dollars, "but I think it's approximately sixty or sixty-five thousand of your American dollars per year."

The woman made an excited noise.

"Right," said Navarra briskly. "That sounds quite, um, quite nice. And, what exactly is this school?" he finally asked. "The letter mentioned that it was somewhat -- um -- unusual? Special needs students, or something?"

This was the moment that Severus had been dreading. It went completely against all his training to talk to these Muggles like this, to tell them exactly what he was about to tell them. But it was Dumbledore's idea, and these days one did whatever Dumbledore asked, even if it meant traveling six thousand miles to talk to Muggles. There was always _Obliviate,_ if he needed to change their memories.

"It's a school for wizards," he said abruptly, wondering vaguely what "special needs" meant. He simply didn't understand American.

"What?" asked the woman quickly, just as Navarra said, "Huh?"

"Wizards. As in magic wands, broomsticks, spells, and so forth," Severus said, a trifle impatiently.

The two Muggles exchanged glances, and Severus could tell they were trying to figure out if he was a loony. The woman had a faint hint of a smile around the corners of her mouth.

"Um..." said Luke.

"Do you need proof?" he growled at them, half-hoping they'd simply kick him out so he could go back to Hogwarts and announce to Dumbledore that one of his plans had finally failed. "Would you prefer me to levitate one of your items of furniture? Or perhaps transfigure something?"

The woman raised her eyes at Navarra, who shrugged, his expression perplexed and amused.

"Okay," he said slowly, with a clear subtext of _Well, what's the worst that could happen?_

Feeling more than a trifle annoyed at the entire situation, Severus raised his wand, pointed very carefully at the coffee table, and said, _"Mesa Leviosa!"_

Obediently, the table rose a few feet, hovered, then, directed by his wand, landed back on the carpet with a thud.

The two Muggles were staring at the coffee table, mouths slightly open with surprise. The woman ran her hand in the air above the table, as if checking for threads, and the man said, "Do that again."

Severus obliged. The gaze of disbelief on Luke Navarra's face was changing to one of pure delight. He turned to the woman, who was still looking dubious. "Well?" he asked her.

She didn't answer, and instead looked critically at Severus. Then she spoke, a little hesitantly. "I'm very sorry, but I'll need a little more proof than that. Not to doubt you, really, but the mind is highly susceptible..."

"Very well, then," Severus said, trying not to stare at her eyebrows, which were furrowed together. "May I use one of your magazines?" he asked, reaching forward to the table, which had settled on the carpet a few inches from where it had been before. The dents in the pile where it used to rest were clearly visible.

The woman gestured at the top of the table for him to choose any magazine he wished. Then she too noticed the dents in the carpet and knelt down to feel them.

Severus held the magazine at wand-length, praying he remembered his sixth-year transfiguration. _"Canis Mutatus!"_ he proclaimed, and, to his great dismay, the magazine became a very furry, small dog with pictures of dishes all over its coat. He started to apologize for the incomplete transformation, but for some reason, the Muggles were even more impressed.

"Wow," they breathed.

Then Luke Navarra turned to him. "When do I start?" he asked.


	2. Do You Believe in Magic?

**Chapter Two: Bye, Bye, Love**

Wendy couldn't help but be a little anxious as she closed the door behind Professor Snape. How were they going to handle a long-distance relationship? How did she feel about Luke having won a professorship via word-of-mouth while she was still in school, doing it the hard way?

She turned to look at Luke, who was setting down his newly-signed contract. Before she could meet his eyes, he had her in a huge hug.

"Isn't it great?" he exclaimed.

She dutifully squeezed him back, glad that hugging didn't allow the other person to see your face: one look would have told him that she wasn't happy.

She knew she should be, really. This teaching job, at a school for wizards, no less, could be his big break. But Scotland was thousands of miles away from Berkeley, California. Wendy was in the middle of her Ph.D. Much as she loved Luke, getting her doctorate was something she needed to do. The best place to do it was the University of California at Berkeley. And Luke would be going to Scotland in less than a week.

She forced a smile on her face as Luke released her. "Isn't it just great?" he repeated. "I mean, wow, really wow, who'd have thought..." He trailed off. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing," she lied.

"Come on -- I know you're upset."

"Nothing, really!" But her stomach flip-flopped as she tried to grin again. She could never lie to him, face to face, and Luke was looking at her expectantly, concerned. "It's just that -- Scotland's a long ways away."

"You can come with me, though, if you want -- so Snape said," he replied. "You'd love it, I'm sure..."

She gave him a weak smile, and his broad grin faltered.

"Oh," he said at last.

"Right," she replied, a hint of sarcasm evident.

"Oh," he said heavily, sitting down. "Your degree."

"Uh, yeah." She couldn't help it, the sarcasm just came. "That little thing I'm in the middle of right now -- that thing that I've been working my butt off on for two years already." She sat down next to him, but couldn't look him in the eye. "I can't just up and leave my research -- and I've got my qualifying exams coming up next fall... I have to write my proposal for Bergeron, and I'm scheduled to work for Taruskin in the spring, and you know how much his name means..."

She looked around at Luke. He was gazing at her with love and pride and no small amount of sadness. "I just can't leave behind everything I've worked so hard at." She sniffed. A tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it hastily away, hoping he hadn't seen.

He had. "We'll figure out a way. I promise," he said, reaching over to hold her tightly.

  
The next day was foggy and cool, a typical August day in Berkeley. It wasn't warm yet -- that wouldn't happen until mid-October -- nor was it really cold, as November and July were.

Wendy tried hard not to think about Hogwarts as she walked to the Music Department. But the joy in Luke's face as he'd signed his contract and the happiness she felt at his success did little to buoy her nervousness about the whole situation. As the walk took about forty minutes, she had more than enough time to think and resolve firmly that she really didn't know what to do.

She was so engrossed in thought that, her feet on automatic, she didn't notice where she was until she bumped into someone in the door to the stairwell of the music department, sending his tottering pile of scores to the floor. "I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed. "I didn't see where I was going."

"It's quite all right," the person said, and she realized it was Professor Moroney.

She helped him gather the rest of the fallen items, then, remembering it was he who had recommended Luke, she asked, "Do you have a minute to talk?"

"I'm a little busy right now," he said, gesturing with his pile of scores. "Perhaps around two?"

As she couldn't exactly say, "I never knew you were a wizard, what's this whole Hogwarts thing about, and what the heck should I do?" in the middle of a well-travelled hallway, she settled with "Um -- I guess..." which he took as an affirmative.

"Great. I'll see you at two, in my office," he replied as he opened the door to the copy room.

"Than -- " she started to say, but he had already disappeared behind the door. " -- ks." Wendy sighed and made her way up to the library.

  
Around five minutes past two, Wendy peered down the upstairs hallway and saw Professor Moroney's door open. Her heart thudded a bit at the sight. It wasn't every day that you confronted a much-loved teacher about his past. _Boy, did that sound wrong,_ she thought absently. Now or never.

Steeling herself thus, she walked down the corridor and tapped on his open door before poking her head around the corner.

Davitt turned from his laptop to look at her, a smile spreading. As always, she was struck by his curiously almond-shaped eyes set into a generally pleasant face, even if the ears were a bit large and the lines were deepening.

"Yes, come in," he said cordially, indicating the chair by his desk. "What can I do for you?"

"You might want to close the door for this," Wendy said in a low voice.

At any other time she might have realized the mark of respect and trust it was for Davitt to actually get up from his chair and walk over to the door to close it -- there were strict guidelines about doors and students in offices -- but at that moment, she was too nervous.

Perhaps something in her voice worried him, for when he sat back down, his expression was slightly concerned. "What's wrong?" he asked gently.

Despite the fact that she had spent all morning contemplating her next words, the little rehearsed speeches that had sounded so wonderful inside her head no longer seemed adequate under such scrutiny. A moment's silence rang throughout the office. A door slammed somewhere outside the office, and students' voices singing out-of-tune drifted up from the walkway below.

"You're a wizard?" she finally said.

Davitt sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair, making it creak. "However did you learn that particular bit of information?" he asked.

"From Severus Snape."

"Snape? Goodness, I haven't seen him in years. How did you run into him?"

This conversation wasn't going anything like she'd planned. "He came to our house."

"Whyever -- "

It was rude to interrupt, but still -- "Luke's been invited to teach music at Hogwarts, and Professor Snape was sent over with the contract," she said in one breath.

"Luke? Oh, Luke Navarra -- I remember him. Excellent student -- a bit nervous, but it always takes a while to get used to performance. Yes, I remember mentioning him to Albus last month. That's wonderful, that is, really wonderful. I didn't know you knew him."

"We've been together for five years," Wendy explained. This conversation wasn't going at all the way she'd planned. "Look," she burst out, "I want to know what's going on and what the hell I'm supposed to do while my boyfriend is in Scotland at a school for wizards."

Davitt sighed deeply. "It's a long story."

"I've got all afternoon."

"I haven't -- I have another class at four, and office hours at two-thirty."

"When are you free?" she asked.

"I won't really be free until about six, but I'd like to get a dinner tonight -- "

"My treat," Wendy offered, and he smiled.

  
Wendy's pita bread had long gone cold.

"So what you're saying," she finally said, each word making her very aware of her tongue, "is that there's a school for teenagers who are magical?"

"Yes." Davitt bit into his levant sandwich. "Ages eleven to eighteen," he said around a mouthful.

Wendy had treated him to Mediterranean, and while she normally loved this restaurant, with its eccentric waitresses -- having a tattoo and/or belly ring seemed to be a prerequisite for employment -- and its excellent hummus, this evening she hadn't tasted one bite.

The restaurant did give good cover for a very strange conversation, though. Everyone was so busily gabbing at each other, or ogling the waitresses' belly rings, that a professor and a student sitting at one of the cramped little outdoor tables having an unusual talk went completely unnoticed. Then again, Davitt had said something... funny... as they were seated, so maybe it wasn't simply a preoccupied crowd.

"Witches, and -- and wizards?"

"Mm-hmm." He brought a forkful of salad to his mouth

"And there's this Lord V -- "

Davitt almost choked in his haste to speak over her next words. The fork clattered to the plate, and some bits of field greens landed on the tiled table. "Don't say his name!" he said hoarsely. He picked up his water glass and took a large gulp.

"Sorry. This -- this Dark Lord? And he wants to kill all the, um, what did you call them?"

"Muggles," he said into the bottom of his water glass.

"He wants to kill all the Muggles -- all of _us_ Muggles?"

"Yes."

"And why, again, does it have to be Luke?"

Davitt swallowed and wiped his face on his napkin. "All that Albus told me in his letter was that he needed a good teacher for the students. Someone young, energetic, and dedicated to his craft. I knew Luke hadn't been accepted to Berkeley, and I knew he'd planned to spend a year practicing. He was the first available harpsichordist I thought of." Davitt shrugged. "I didn't know the two of you were seeing each other. "How are you going to manage the separation?" Davitt asked. He looked genuinely concerned.

Wendy remembered that he was currently in a long-distance relationship as well; his other half lived in France, and department gossip had them seeing each other every three to six months.

"That's another thing," she sighed sadly. She picked up a piece of cold pita bread and idly scooped some hummus onto it. "I don't know. How do you manage?" she asked through a mouthful.

"We Apparate."

"Huh?"

"Apparition. Disappearing in one place and re-appearing in another. It's difficult, cross-Atlantic, so we don't do it often. Every weekend, though, one of us visits the other. It makes it manageable."

"Can't Luke and I -- um -- Apparate?"

"Oh, no, no. Only witches and wizards can."

"That's unfair."

"I know," he agreed, crunching a radish. "Pity you can't use the Floo," he said thoughtfully.

"The flue? That part of a chimney that you --"

"No, the Floo -- F-L-O-O. It's a network of fireplaces; we can travel through them."

"Why can't I use it?"

"The Floo Department in the U.S. is extremely strict about what houses can be on the Network, and I seriously doubt they'll let a Muggle residence be hooked up. If it were simply across the continent, it might be manageable, but international floos require a lot of paperwork."

"That's not fair, either!"

"I know," he said sadly. "This general unfairness is one of the reasons we wizardkind have separated ourselves from the Muggles. We have so many things that you can never use."

The waitress came by with the check at that point, and, though Wendy had hundreds of questions, Davitt forcibly turned the conversation to her dissertation.

Around eight, Wendy left the restaurant for home. It was an awful lot of information to absorb, and she wasn't quite sure whether it wasn't all some weird dream. But the sidewalks felt real, the smells of urine and incense as she crossed Telegraph Avenue were definitely real, and it was too strange for her to have imagined all of it.

A school for teenagers who were magical. Witches and wizards. And normal people -- _Muggles,_ she told herself, rolling the word around her mouth -- didn't know anything about it. Why, there were probably a few dozen wizards in Berkeley, now that she thought of it -- enough eccentric people, certainly. But the terrorism was a little scary, she had to admit. A racist cult with a leader calling himself Lord Voldemort, _flight from death_, and many followers, hidden in high places.

Davitt had assured her that the school was safe from external attacks, and that Luke would be well supervised when he was outside the castle. But to be a normal person, a Muggle, in the midst of all that... It was unnerving.

That still didn't solve her own dilemma. Should she go with Luke or stay in Berkeley and see him at Christmas? Her brain told her to stay in Berkeley, finish her degree here, where she had her resources, but her heart desperately wanted to follow him, and she was downright curious about the whole magic thing. If it weren't for the law against setting up magical transportation systems for Muggles, he might have been able to come home once a week. But there was the law, so they'd just have to manage.

Wendy balled her hands into fists in frustration, waving aside the offers of a man with dreadlocks and a collection of tie-dyed shirts. She couldn't ask Luke to stay -- if she did, he certainly would -- but that wouldn't be right. He had to go abroad, to take this opportunity. It was the chance of a lifetime for him. They'd just have to manage.

Luke had been told to use normal -- "Muggle," the note had said, appearing on the living room table the day after he'd signed the contract -- transportation to get to Britain. Though the school had bought the ticket, the purchase had still been a hassle. He was exhausted. It had taken over twelve hours to get from California to Heathrow. _No disappearing in a puff of green smoke_, he thought ruefully as he waited at Baggage Claim in Heathrow.

A loud _thunk_ told him his trunk, a farewell gift from Wendy, had just popped out. "It looks so much classier," she had said, "and it'll last longer." He ran to get it, heaving it off the conveyor belt with the help of a nearby stranger.

Professor Snape had said that someone would be waiting for him at the airport. Luke looked around eagerly, but didn't see anyone who looked like, well, like a wizard. What had he been expecting? A neon sign, "Wizard over here?" A hunched old woman with warts and a pointy hat, hovering on a twisted broomstick? A welcoming committee? Well, yes. Or at least one of those little cardboard signs on sticks: "Navarra," or even, "Hogwarts."

Luke fought down the paranoia. _Of course they'll be here,_ he told himself firmly. _Stop worrying._ He sat down on his trunk to wait.

After five minutes of waiting patiently, he got up and bought a newspaper from a nearby kiosk, fumbling over the hexagonal fifty-pence pieces.

Ten minutes after that, he looked up from a story about some mysterious murders in Kent, wherever that was -- he made a mental note to buy a map of Great Britain -- to see... nothing. No witches' hats, no signs. Just drab, tired travelers. He wasn't exactly expecting a flashing sign, but he was sure that the person would make himself, or herself, known.

After a half hour of waiting, he fought down a serious panic attack.

There was no way of contacting the school -- no phone number, or email, or even an address. He supposed that if he were waiting here more than an hour, he might call Wendy and ask her if something had happened. What time was it back in California? Eight hours difference... She wouldn't mind being woken at three in the morning.

After forty-five minutes, Luke started looking around for a pay phone, thinking gloomily of the cost of a call to the U.S. He had begun to drag his trunk towards the first one he saw when he spotted a very old man with several feet of long white hair and beard. "Unusual," he said to himself, then did a double take. On his first look, he hadn't noticed it, but the man was wearing a cloak. A purple one.

_Wizard._

The man muttered something to himself, then looked up and caught Luke's eyes. He smiled. Luke knew at once that this was the person he'd been waiting for. The man moved towards Luke, and the crowd parted as though it didn't quite see him, but was avoiding him nonetheless. It reeked of magic.

"You must be Luke Navarra," said the old man in a very kind voice.

"That's me," he said, flinching at how _American_ he sounded.

"I'm Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster at Hogwarts."

"Very nice to meet you at last, sir," said Luke, holding out his hand. People now seemed to be flowing around both of them.

"Call me Albus, please. If you'll follow me?"

"My trunk..."

Albus Dumbledore flicked a long, thin piece of wood in his hands -- _his wand,_ Luke realized with a jolt -- and the trunk began to hover a few inches off the floor. As Dumbledore walked away, the trunk followed like an obedient dog.

No one noticed.

"I apologize for being so late," Albus was saying when Luke turned his attention from the trunk. "The person who was supposed to meet you -- Professor Snape -- was, ah, delayed."

"That's quite all right, sir -- uh, Albus," Luke replied politely. "I was only worried that I had no way of contacting you at the school. Is there a phone number or anything?"

They were now outside the airport, and a lime green car was waiting for them at the curb. Albus levitated Luke's luggage into the trunk of the car -- again, no one noticed -- and gestured for him to get in.

"There isn't really that sort of technology at the school," Albus replied. "We'll have to get you an owl, I suppose; they're best for communication."

Luke nodded, hoping he didn't look too shocked. The car rolled away from the curb smoothly, somehow jumping to the front of the unmoving line at the traffic lights.

"I suppose you must be exhausted and quite shocked by all of this, Luke," said Albus. "Don't worry -- you'll fit in just fine."

"Thanks," said Luke. They were moving through the knot of cars easily, though he couldn't tell how. And they were on the wrong side of the road. He jerked his attention back to Albus. Undoubtedly he'd get used to seeing the cars drive on the left. "I have to admit, I'm quite nervous about the whole experience. They're wizards, after all, and I'm just a -- a Muggle," he said the word still sounding foreign.

"The students know better than to take advantage of a teacher. The younger ones will be too scared of detention, and the older ones should have the honor not to play too many tricks on you."

"Honor?" Luke asked. Now the freeway was flashing past them.

"Most wizards and witches teach their children that Muggles are to be pitied and protected, in a way. I'm sorry to say that there is often a feeling that Muggles are somewhat inferior to wizards -- though none of these people have ever encountered a shotgun, I'm sure." He smiled benignly, though with a trace of sadness.

"But on to more mundane matters," Albus continued. "I've arranged rooms for you on the second floor, since you might have some difficulty with the staircases -- they like to change around, and can be particularly stubborn sometimes..."

Albus talked for most of the trip to Kings Cross Station in the heart of London. Luke let a lot of it wash over him, hoping he'd remember when he needed to.

"Now, I'm going to put you on the train that will take you to Newtonmore, the nearest Muggle village to the school," Albus told Luke, leading him inside the station and handing him a ticket. "I'll be able to take your luggage, so don't worry about that. Someone will meet you at the station in Newtonmore to take you further."

Albus steered him towards a platforrm. Somehow, they were there just as the train was getting ready to leave. Luke boarded, found a compartment, and fell right asleep.

  
When he awoke, the train was slowing down and it was just past sunset. Luke knew he must have changed trains, but he didn't remember doing it. The view outside the train showed a quaint little town with mountains in the distance, just like he would have expected a rural Scottish village to look.

Luke stepped onto the platform and looked around expectantly, hoping he didn't have to wait long this time. He was tired, and he didn't even have his trunk to sit on.

"Mr. Navarra."

He whirled. Standing behind him was Severus Snape, scowling.

"Professor," he said, holding out his hand. "It's nice to see you again."

"Indeed," said Snape, not taking the hand. "I must lead you to the school. Follow me."

They took a cab, an ordinary Muggle one that couldn't jump stoplights, from outside the train station, past the outskirts of the small town, and into the hills. After half an hour, when they were in the middle of what seemed like nowhere, Snape said to the driver, "Stop here."

"Wot, 'ere?" asked the driver. "T'ain't nothin' 'ere, sir."

"I know that," said Snape coldly. "Stop."

The driver rolled to a stop, and Luke got out while Snape paid the driver. "We walk from here," Snape said.

"Oh, no," Luke mumbled, and when Snape shot him a nasty look, he said pleadingly, "I've been traveling for twenty hours now -- how far is it?"

"Two miles to the village." Snape had already set off along a path that had appeared out of nowhere as soon as the cab had left.

Luke sighed and followed, wishing he'd brought a flashlight. At least the moon was almost full. The hills were beautiful, bathed in silvery moonlight. Luke never been out in the country at night with the moon this full, and was surprised to find that he could actually see the scrubby bushes around him quite well.

They crested the first hill after about twenty minutes, and Luke caught sight below them of a small bean-shaped lake with a ruined castle on the cliff face above it. It was very picturesque, glinting in the moonlight, the placid lake reflecting the stars above.

But he wasn't given time to gaze, or even to catch his breath. Snape was already continuing down the path to a small village in the shadow of the hill. They passed some caves, then a ruined little shack, and were finally in the main street of a small village, with lights on in windows down the side streets.

"This is Hogsmeade," said Snape curtly.

Another half hour of silence found them taking the path up to the ruined castle.

"Uh," began Luke, "Is this the school?"

"Yes."

"You must have some funding problems, then?" Luke asked as gently as he could.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, it obviously needs repair..."

To his surprise, Snape laughed, a genuine sound of amusement. "Of course it doesn't. You just can't see it because you're a Muggle."

Now that Luke paid attention, it seemed that the rocky surroundings were a little blurry, like a badly developed photo. If he squinted and pretended he wasn't looking, he could almost see grass beside them. They mounted some steps, and Luke had to fight an urge to go elsewhere.

_Aren't you forgetting to do something?_ a little voice in his head said. _You really have other things to do besides wander around here..._

But he doggedly followed Snape up the steps to the door, which had a large sign on it saying, "DANGER. DO NOT ENTER: UNSAFE." But Snape opened the door anyways, and Luke gasped.

They were in a large entrance hall, lit with glittering candles and decorated with large suits of armor. Luke glanced behind him and saw well-kept grounds bathed in moonlight before the doors closed with a thud.

"Keep up," said Snape curtly as they mounted a long marble staircase. "If you get lost, you won't be able to find your way out without help."

That didn't sound good. Luke trotted a little closer to Snape. Movement caught his eye, and he turned to look at a large painting of a very haughty-looking man in scarlet robes.

The man frowned, squinting, then spoke. "Are you a Muggle, good man?"

"Uh -- yes, I am," Luke said. He was talking to a painting! A _painting!_

"Never thought I'd see the day," said the man arrogantly. "A Muggle! Here, in the greatest wizarding institution in the world! Shocking, utterly shocking. The things these young folks will do! These Muggles, ruining everything in our world. Why, if I had my way --"

Snape was at the top of the long marble staircase, and turned to look pointedly at Luke. "Keep up," he repeated.

Luke was glad to leave the painting, who was now elaborating why Muggles ought to be tagged at birth and made to report yearly, and followed Snape up the staircase.

They went down several corridors, through a few tapestries, and up another flight of stairs. Then they went along another corridor lit with torches before Snape stopped in front of a stretch of blank wall flanked with sconces.

He waved his wand, and the wall turned into a door, which opened. "These are your rooms," he said shortly as Luke followed him in. He had barely had a glimpse of space and light before Snape spoke again. "The password to reveal the door is 'harpsichord' right now, though I dare say you will wish to change it. Breakfast will be served tomorrow morning in the Great Hall on the ground floor. If you simply take the nearest staircase down two flights, you should find your way there eventually. If you get lost, ask the paintings for assistance. Goodnight."

Snape closed the door with a snap.


	3. That I Would Be Good

**Chapter Three: That I Would Be Good**

Hogwarts letters came three days before the start of term. "Leaving it awfully late, aren't they?" commented Ron as he opened his envelope. 

"Not as bad as last year, though," said Harry. 

Hermione opened her letter and flipped immediately to the booklist to see which classes she had been allowed to take. She had passed all her O.W.L. but knew that those classes wouldn't all fit at N.E.W.T. level. The books for Charms, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Potions, Transfiguration, and Herbology were all there, but Hermione puzzled a bit over the last item on the list, _Musical Basics: Sight-Singing, Harmony, and Analysis_. 

"Harry, Ron, did you --" she began, but broke off as Ginny let out a squeal. 

"Ooh, look! I've got a badge! A prefect badge! Muuum!" she shouted. 

Mrs Weasley came running. "Oh, Ginny, that's wonderful!" she gushed. "Fifth prefect in the family! Wait till I tell Arthur! What do you want? An owl?" 

Ginny seemed really thoughtful for a minute, then, with a quick glance at Harry, said, "Mum, could I have a broomstick, like Ron's?" 

"It's a good thing the twins aren't here," Hermione heard Ron mutter to Harry, "or they'd be impossible." 

Harry laughed softly, and Hermione noticed that he looked odd, somehow, as though he was happy but somewhat reluctant to show it. And when he hugged Ginny in congratulations, his face looked a little pink -- as did Ginny's. Hermione moved forward to congratulate her friend, and forgot about the odd book on the list. 

It wasn't until that afternoon, when they were in Diagon Alley, that she remembered and pulled it out of her bag. 

"You get that weird book, too?" Ron asked, watching her, as they settled at Fortescue's for an afternoon ice cream. Their books were stuffed in bags at their feet, and, as usual, Hermione had about three times as many. 

"Yes, I did," Hermione said. "I wonder what it's for?" 

"Must be a new class," Harry said. 

"What makes you say that?" she asked. 

"Well, everyone's buying them -- didn't you see?" said Harry. 

Hermione had seen. Nearly every teenager in line had had a copy. 

"I wonder why, though," said Ron. "We've got enough work as it is already." 

"Oh, Ron," she said, "One little class isn't going to be too much work. Besides, I doubt it will meet more than once a week. I've read about N.E.W.T. classes, and they take up so much time, double periods three times a week. I don't think there would be more than an hour each week that we'd have to spare from our regular coursework, and I really don't think that Professor Dumbledore would expect us to take time away from important things to study _music._" 

"Music's very important," Ginny said, her tone slightly hurt. 

"That's not what I meant," Hermione started to say. 

"That's what you just said," Ginny replied, a little heatedly. "'Taking time away from important things to study music.'" 

Hermione was suprised -- normally she and Ginny got on perfectly well. 

"Sometimes I think you do spend too much time studying," Ginny went on, almost sadly. "There are more things in the world than books and grades." 

Hermione was silent for the rest of the day. 

When Luke awoke on his first day at Hogwarts, he was a little startled to find that there was a fire lit in the grate in his bedroom. He could have -- would have -- sworn that there hadn't been one the previous night, when, half dead, he had collapsed into the sheets fully dressed. 

His room was flooded with bright sunlight which, combined with the fire, made the room a little more than cozy. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and realized with a start that he was no longer in his jeans, sweatshirt and sneakers. He was barefoot and wearing blue-and-white striped pajamas. He curled his toes in the thick pile rug under his feet. A little unnerving, but not unpleasant, though he wondered who had undressed him. "Magic, of course," he murmured to himself. 

The windows were wonderfully old-fashioned, with brass catches on the bottoms that allowed them to swing outwards, letting a cool breeze float in. Luke gazed out at the grounds that had last night been all but invisible to him. 

The grass was green and thick, like an emerald carpet covering a long slope between the castle and some sort of athletic field. Squinting, he could make out the shape of spectators' stands, ranged in a circle around a grassy field. There was something at either end of the field, although he couldn't make it out from that distance. He had three days before the students came, though, so perhaps he might go see. 

As Luke turned away from the window, his stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten anything since a particularly floppy plate of lukewarm noodles covered in some sort of glutinous white stuff at least twenty-four hours ago. Breakfast sounded like a good idea. But first, he had to wash up. 

A doorway off to his right looked promising and, sure enough, there was a large bathroom, complete with an ancient claw-footed bathtub. _Wendy would like this,_ he thought with a pang of loneliness. The bathtub seemed large enough for at least three people to sit in, and definitely large enough for two to... _Stop that,_ he told himself. _She's not here. You'll see her at Christmas, and maybe next term she can come and help._

The shower looked fairly ordinary, so Luke turned on the taps and was pleasantly surprised that the water came out hot, with no waiting. Magic had its advantages. 

He retrieved his shampoo, soap, and shaving paraphernalia from his trunk, then stepped into the shower. When that was finished, he wrapped the towel around his waist, wiped the bathroom mirror clean, squirted some shaving cream onto his hand, and began removing his bristles. 

He was just about to do his Adam's apple when, out of nowhere, a motherly voice with a thick Scottish accent said, "You've missed a spot, dearie. Just on your chin." 

The now-bloody razor fell into the sink with a clatter. Luke stared around. 

"Who said that?" he asked sharply. 

"Me, dearie," said the voice again. It was coming from the mirror. 

Luke stared into it, seeing only his puzzled, bleeding face. 

"Oh -- you're the new teacher!" the voice said, sounding delighted. "You're that Muggle old Greenbridge downstairs was raging about!" It let out a small titter. "Wait till they find out that you're in my bathroom!" 

"Um... yes?" 

"Sorry, dear, if I startled you," the voice continued. 

"Who -- who are you?" 

"Oh! I'm your mirror." 

"My mirror?" He stared at it, but couldn't see any way for it to speak. _Magic,_ he thought ruefully. 

"Yes. Now, you'd better wipe that blood off your neck and finish shaving. You're wasting water," the mirror chided. 

Luke obeyed, and, a few minutes later, was back in the bedroom. He dressed in the first clean clothes he could find and left. He'd tidy up later. 

The corridor leading to his rooms looked much less sinister during the day. The torches were still lit, but the castle now had an air of openness that it had lacked during the night. Remembering Snape's words about how to get to the Great Hall, Luke looked around for a staircase. None. 

On a whim, he went right, following the corridor as it led past paintings -- moving paintings -- and more doors that appeared to lead to empty classrooms. After what felt like ten minutes walking along the same corridor, he finally found a staircase and headed down it, only to find that it ended after one flight. 

_Damn,_ he thought, and set off down the new corridor. There was an ugly suit of armor with its gloves on backwards, some more paintings of old people, many of whom were snoozing gently, along with a few unpleasant statues that seemed to leer at him. The corridor twisted and turned, never quite going around corners but never going straight. 

Now thoroughly lost, he finally found another staircase that went downwards, only to find that he didn't go anywhere. He kept stepping down, but was always on the first step still. 

"Hey!" he finally exclaimed in frustration. "I just want to get to breakfast!" 

"Oh, you don't want that staircase," said a melancholy voice behind him. 

He turned and yelped. There was no place to run, no place to hide. He was facing a pearly white, translucent man whose clothing placed him easily in the fourteenth century -- a _ghost._

"Now, now, good man!" exclaimed the ghost. "I am not so frightening. You must be the new teacher Dumbledore told us all about. A Muggle, how exciting!" 

"You're a g-ghost!" Luke stuttered. 

The man chuckled. "Indeed I am, dear fellow." He swept off his plumed hat and made an elaborate bow, with many hand flourishes. "Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, at your service," he intoned. 

"L-luke Navarra," said Luke, stunned. Feeling quite out of his depth, he held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you." The ghost looked at him, then down at the hand. 

"Likewise," he said delicately, and Luke realized that, being a ghost, Sir Nicholas wouldn't be able to shake his hand. 

"Right," he mumbled, and put the hand away. "Um... anyway, you were telling me that I don't want this staircase?" 

"Naturally not," said Sir Nicholas. "This one doesn't go anywhere except on Sundays in months with the letter 'J' in them." 

"What?" said Luke, laughing. "You're not serious!" 

"Of course I am," said Sir Nicholas, sounding slightly miffed. "I have haunted this school for over five hundred years." 

"I'm sorry," Luke apologized. "I'm just suprised, that's all. Do you think you could help me get down to the Great Hall?" 

"Certainly," said Sir Nicholas with dignity, as though he was going to be the charitable one and forget the transgression. He led Luke back down the corridor he'd just traversed, back up the last staircase, and through a hidden door behind a tapestry to a corridor at the end of which Luke could see the gleaming marble staircase he'd walked up the previous night. 

"If you walk down this staircase, you'll find yourself in the entrance hall," said Sir Nicholas. "The Great Hall is to your left." 

"Thanks very much," said Luke as the ghost glided away. 

He walked down the stairs, across the entrance hall, and towards the doors to the Great Hall. He could smell breakfast -- bacon, eggs, cinnamon -- and hear voices. Walking through the doors, he saw four long tables propped against the high walls, and another long table on a dais to his left. In the middle of the hall was set a large rectangular table, around which sat about a dozen adults in long robes and pointed hats. 

The room was enormous, with a high ceiling that seemed to be transparent -- Luke could see clouds and blue sky through it. There didn't appear to be any glass, though. 

"Good morning, Luke!" called Albus, rising from his chair. He indicated an empty chair partially down one side of the table from him. "Do have a seat." 

"Now that the Muggle's here," said a voice. 

Luke looked quickly to see who had spoken but he couldn't tell. He suspected it was Snape, though. "Sorry I'm late," he said, coming over to the table and sitting down. "A staircase wouldn't let me descend, but Sir Nicholas came to my rescue." 

"You mean Nearly Headless Nick?" asked a stern-faced woman with a Scottish accent. 

_"Nearly Headless?"_ he asked her. "How can anyone be nearly headless?" 

"Our poor Gryffindor ghost had the misfortune of being partially beheaded before he died," said Albus over a few snide titters. "But that is a story for another time. Shall we eat, and then retire to the staff room for the meeting? Luke," he continued, as everyone else started eating, "I'll introduce everyone to you there. It will be a lot to take in, and I don't want you choking." His eyes twinkled. 

Luke, feeling as if he'd just been plunged into an icy bath, stared back at him in desperation. Introductions! What did they all teach? How was he going to remember their names, their subjects? For that matter, what sort of subjects did they have at a wizarding school? 

"Don't worry," Albus said in his ear, as if he'd read Luke's mind. "It is a lot to remember, but you'll do fine. Eat some breakfast," he said kindly. 

Luke eyed his empty plate, then looked along the table to see what there was to eat. He spotted fried eggs, toast, bacon, ham, sausages, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, and jugs of what looked like carrot juice. He took a bit of everything except the meat, poured himself a glass of the juice, and started in. 

"Don't you eat meat?" squeaked a voice beside him. 

He looked at his next door neighbor and tried not to stare. The man was about three feet tall, with a shock of white hair and an ancient face. "Uh, no, I don't," Luke answered, hoping that all of his food stayed in his mouth. 

"Whyever not?" asked the man. 

Luke thought about explaining all the reasons behind vegetarianism -- the chemicals that wound up in the feed, the treatment of the animals, the poor handling that meat often received -- and said, "I just don't like it." 

"Pity," said the man, "the house-elves are quite good with the meat dishes. Oh, I'm Filius Flitwick; it's very nice to meet you." 

Luke turned sideways and awkardly shook the proferred hand. "Likewise," he said. "Um... what are house-elves?" 

"They do the cooking and the cleaning around the school," explained Filius. "You'll rarely see them, but occasionally if you're up late, you'll see one scampering around, seeing to the fires and such." 

"Oh," he said again. "That's convenient." He felt so completely out of his depth that, for a moment, he wanted to curl up into a little ball and cry for his mother. But the moment passed, and he set to his eggs, which were quite good. 

All along the table, people were talking. 

"I don't understand," said the Scottish woman to Albus, "why you ever let Hagrid bring these creatures onto the grounds. Look at the Skrewts, for goodness' sake!" 

"My dear Minerva," replied Albus, "if I forbid Hagrid from bringing a creature onto the grounds, he will simply smuggle it into the forest somehow. It is much better that the students see what kind of creatures exist, rather than being surprised the first time they come across something not usually covered in the curriculum." 

"But, Albus, they're absolutely impossible to control!" 

"Hagrid seems to be fine with them. Don't worry. Poppy can take care of anything that happens." 

This assurance did not apparently sit well with Minerva. She shuddered, though she said nothing more. 

Luke took a drink of his juice, which was definitely not carrot juice, though it was about the same consistency, not quite sweet. He couldn't place it, and thought he'd ask someone, when the conversation a few seats down caught his ear. A very beautiful woman was talking quietly with a slightly dumpy, short woman with flyaway hair. 

"I don't understand why... a Muggle... castle," said the beautiful woman. 

"...thinks they need...but why _he_ has to teach..." said the other woman. 

The first woman shook her head, her lush black hair swinging back and forth. "I don't like it," she said clearly. "The students will take advantage of him." 

Then the shorter woman saw Luke looking at them and flushed slightly, but smiled warmly at him. Luke made a mental note to find out what the worst was that the students could inflict upon him. 

After everyone had eaten, a silence fell over the table. "Shall we, then?" Albus said. 

Almost as one, the other teachers rose and followed him out of the Great Hall and along the corridor opposite the entrance hall from it. 

Albus opened the door into a long, paneled room whose door was guarded by gargoyles. Luke could have sworn that he saw one of the gargoyles blink as he approached, last in line. 

One by one the other teachers sat down in what seemed to be usual chairs, leaving Luke standing by the door, feeling foolish. He sat down in the nearest chair and tried not to look awkward. 

Albus favored them all with a long gaze before starting. "First order of business, I think," he began, "is to introduce our newest teacher. This is Luke Navarra, and he will be teaching music to all the students." 

Someone coughed, a very bad attempt to cover up a derisive snort. 

"As I myself have remarked many times," said Albus, not quite sounding as though he were responding to the snort, "music is a magic beyond what we teach here, and I hope that Luke will assist our students in discovering its powers." 

_Now, that's new,_ thought Luke. He nodded and tried to look intelligent. Everyone was staring at him, some openly hateful, like Snape and the beautiful woman, others merely curious, like Minerva, and one or two as if he were some sub-intelligent child they were indulging. A faint boiling began somewhere in his hands, and he wished he had some paper to clench. His face felt hot. 

"As a Muggle, Luke will need a fair amount of help figuring out this castle at first, as it will not respond as well to him as it does to us, and I trust that all of you will be glad to help him find his way around." The tone, though gentle, had a hint of steel in it that brooked no argument. "And I must ask you not to announce to the students that he is a Muggle, as they will certainly find out in their own due time." 

There was a general murmur of slightly impatient agreement. 

Albus then went on to introduce each of the other teachers in turn to Luke, who prayed that he would remember all their names, and wished he'd brought a notebook with him to jot it down. 

Minerva McGonagall taught Transfiguration, which sounded like changing things into other things. She was the one with the Scottish accent. She was also Deputy Headmistress, Head of Gryffindor House, whatever that meant, and seemed stern but kind. 

Filius Flitwick, the wizened old man to whom Luke had spoken at breakfast, taught Charms -- sounded simple enough -- and was Head of Ravenclaw House. He gave Luke an enthusiastic smile when he was introduced. 

The beautiful woman he had seen at breakfast was Pleiade Sinistra, who taught Astronomy. This was the first familiar subject introduced, but when Luke turned eagerly to say, "Nice to meet you," for the first time really meaning it, she gave him a _very_ disdainful look and turned away. 

Severus Snape taught Potions. This conjured up images in Luke's head of steaming cauldrons, gathering herbs by the quarter-moon, and walking widdershins, which he thought might mean clockwise, though he couldn't remember, around your cauldron three times. Severus was Head of Slytherin House and appeared not to be very well-liked. 

The short, dumpy witch with the kind face was Quivisianthe Sprout, who was Head of Hufflepuff House and taught Herbology. She seemed very nice and open, though a little nervous. She constantly straighted her hat, thgouh never noticed that her hair flew every whichway. 

Effugia Hooch taught flying and Quidditch, whatever that was, and Luke tried hard not to stare at her. She seemed to be his nightmare gym teacher from middle school -- short hair, barky voice, _yellow eyes,_ and was wearing a whistle around her neck. The way she and Pleiade were looking at each other also made him think of his middle-school gym teacher and the way the girls never wanted to be alone with her. 

The man who taught Muggle Studies, Will Humperdinck, looked as if Christmas had come early. "I think we'll have a lot to talk about," he said eagerly when they were introduced. Luke groaned inwardly. Could anything make him feel more out of his depth than knowing that his lifestyle was the object of study? 

Calcula Vector, who taught something called Arithmancy, was middle-aged and fairly ordinary looking. She had been looking at Luke with frank curiosity throughout the entire morning, and, feeling brave, he returned her look with a long gaze that used to work back in Berkeley on particularly persistent panhandlers. She dropped her eyes, which gave Luke a surge of confidence. 

Rubeus Hagrid entered the meeting late, his hands wrapped in bandages. Luke couldn't help himself -- he stared. The man was about twice as tall as a normal man and at least three times as broad, and he just looked too big to be allowed. His hair was wild and untamed, though his eyes were kind. He moved quite easily, though, and said, "Pleased teh meetcha," when introduced. Finding a seat by the wall, Hagrid sank into it carefully. 

Sibyll Trelawney was the Divination teacher, and reminded him of the gypsy fortune-tellers he'd seen before. Her voice when she answered was misty and distant, as though she were preoccupied with visions on some other plane. 

"I will introduce you to Firenze later," said Albus, after introducing Sibyll. "There will be some -- ah -- explanations necessary." Albus went on to introduce Poppy Pomfrey, the school nurse, Argus Filch, the caretaker, and the last teacher, Alta Typicus, who taught Study of Ancient Runes and looked as if ancient runes could have been her first language. 

"I believe that's everyone, then," Albus said. "Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher won't be arriving until the second day of classes. Most of you already know her, I believe?" he asked, receiving a murmur of assent. 

The meeting turned to mundane matters, discussion of the students, and of their schedules. Luke tried to look interested, and again wished he'd brought a notebook, as so many names flashed past and details about the school were dropped. But he couldn't follow the track of the conversation very well. He did vaguely understand that there were four groups of students, the Houses, and there were serious rivalries between them, apparently centered around a sport called Quidditch. All in all, he was thoroughly relieved when the meeting ended and he was able to set off back towards his rooms. 

At least, that was where he meant to go. After climbing several staircases that led to completely unfamiliar corridors, Luke headed back down some stairs and found himself in the corridor off the entrance hall. "Okay," he said to himself. "Let's do this again." 

Very deliberately, Luke started up the marble staircase, turned left, and went along the corridor to the tapestry, which he walked through. Then he continued along the corridor, trying to take note of which portraits were where, hoping that the inhabitants at least stayed in their frames, even if they didn't stay still. Keeping his destination in mind -- perhaps that might help -- he headed up another staircase, to a winding corridor, and found himself at his wall. A surge of triumph flooded through him. 

But then -- "Oh, no." He had no idea what the password was. Professor Snape had said it last night, but he had been so tired that he hadn't paid any attention to him. 

Luke sank down to the floor in a slump, determined not to wail. He felt so lost here -- not only was he not magical, but he could barely find his way around the school, the other teachers all thought him something less than human, and, on top of it all, the food was going to be mostly meat. 

He didn't belong here, he belonged back in Berkeley, with Wendy, practicing and hoping for a successful audition, listening to music, going to movies, and watching Wendy succeed so well at her research. He belonged with the other Muggles, not in this stone castle with moving pictures and fussy staircases. He needed streets and stores and open spaces, and the normal hustle and bustle of thousands of people trying to do their jobs. It felt so empty here, so completely enclosed. He wanted to go home. He wanted so much to just run out the front door and find his way to the nearest normal town and buy a ticket home. 

_But this is your big chance,_ he told himself, _your chance to become valuable all by yourself, not as Wendy's attachment. This is the big break you were waiting for, and it's a chance to teach hundreds of students about music. Haven't you always wanted to be a teacher? Haven't you always lamented the fact that every parent wanted their four year old to learn violin or piano, never harpsichord? Haven't you been praying and hoping for something like this for years? Are you going to run away just because the others are being rude and snobbish?_

"No," he said aloud to the empty corridor. "No, I'm not going to give up. I'm going to succeed at this. I've been given the chance to play harpsichord for a living..." 

He trailed off. His door had opened. Of course. "Harpsichord." How obvious. 

Relieved, Luke stepped inside, his thoughts now centered on unpacking and cleaning, but, to his great suprise, it was all unpacked for him. 

Or rather, it was in the process of being unpacked by a two-foot-high creature with long pointy ears and a squashed tomato of a nose. 


	4. When You Wish Upon a Star

**Chapter 4: When You Wish Upon a Star**

Snape swore. 

How could Dumbledore do this to him? _How_ could that wretched man possibly think that Snape would want to do this? Dumbledore knew how much Snape hated the prospect, knew that Snape wouldn't do it given a choice. Why did that bumbling idiot _Gryffindor_ always assume that people would do whatever he wanted? 

Because they did, of course. 

And that was why Snape was swearing. "Merlin's balls on a stick!" he bellowed to his empty office, furious with himself. 

He'd just agreed to continue giving that wretched Potter boy Occlumency lessons. But that wasn't the major problem. 

He'd agreed to give Luke a tour of the school. 

Why, why, _why,_ on earth did Dumbledore think that Snape was a good choice for a tour guide? The man was a Muggle, he wouldn't even know the first thing about Wizarding Space, much less how to map in his head. Wizarding children picked it up easily through exposure, and even Mudbl -- Muggleborns -- learned it eventually. But a full grown Muggle trying to navigate the changing corridors of Hogwarts? 

He sighed, wondering why Dumbledore kept throwing the two of them together -- first the visit, then the train station, and now this. 

  
Luke meant to say, "Excuse me, but who are you?" but what came out instead was a sort of confused "pbleh?" 

The creature turned, and Luke made the sound again. It had enormous brown eyes, more cartoon-like than real, and a nose that looked just like, well, just like a squashed tomato. It was about two feet tall and wearing a small towel, the kind you hang in the bathroom for guests to dry their hands on. 

"Oh, sir!" it squeaked in a very high voice. "Winky is not finished, sir, Winky is sorry, Winky isn't meaning to be seen!" 

Luke finally found his words after a few more confused splutters. "What -- who are you?" 

"Winky, sir, Winky the house-elf," it said, with a bow. "Winky cleans rooms at Hogwarts and puts away sir's things while sir is at breakfast. Winky is not supposed to be seen!" it squeaked suddenly, looking frantic. 

"It's okay," Luke said, trying to be reassuring through his befuddlement. "I'm not used to all this magic, it doesn't matter to me." 

"Then it is true?" squeaked Winky. "You is a Muggle, sir?" 

"Uh, yeah," said Luke. 

Winky gazed at him in a sort of awed amazement. "And Professor Dumbledore is letting you in here?" it squeaked. "Professor Dumbledore has never let a Muggle into Hogwarts before." 

"I'm supposed to teach music," said Luke, wondering if he could move any closer into his rooms. He stepped forward, towards the sofa. Winky didn't flinch at this, so he went over and sat down where he could still see the creature. 

"Professor Dumbledore likes music," said Winky. It stared for a moment longer at him, not blinking, then seemed to come to with a shake of its head. "Winky should be cleaning!" it squeaked, and, with a _crack!_, the socks it had been holding vanished. 

Luke knew he had to get used to this sort of magic, but it still startled him. "Um," he began, "um, should I just go away until you're finished? I mean, I can put my own clothes away and stuff..." 

But Winky looked deeply offended and proclaimed, "Winky is a good house-elf, sir, and Winbky is putting away sir's clothes as I was told. Sir may stay if sir wishes, Winky will be as quick as she can." This last was said rather apologetically. 

And Luke realized that the creature had called itself a "she." Female. So there were male house-elves, too, he realized. This world was weirder than he'd ever imagined. 

Someone knocked at the door. Feeling somewhat relieved, Luke went to answer it and found Snape standing outside, looking sour. 

"Hello," said Luke pleasantly. "Would you like to come in?" 

With a glance over Luke's shoulder at the scurrying house-elf, Snape shook his head curtly. "I am to give you a _tour,_" he sneered the word, "of Hogwarts. Don't ask me why." 

"Oh," said Luke, trying to shift gears. "Well, then, um... are we going now?" 

"I would assume so." 

"Then let's go," said Luke brightly. Whatever Snape's sheetrock-sized chip was, Luke wasn't going to let it bother _him_. 

They left Winky to her work and headed up the corridor. Snape was striding along so fast that Luke was hard-pressed to keep up. "So where are we going?" he asked, slightly out of breath. 

Snape's voice was colder than ever when he finally replied, which was a while later. "We are going back to the entrance hall to begin the... tour." 

  
The tour could have gone much worse, Luke thought. While not directly rude, Snape was definitely not polite and certainly not friendly. He dutifully pointed out the entrances to each of the four Houses, and introduced Luke to the guardians. It was a little odd to be introduced to a stretch of blank wall (which was the entrance to the Slytherin common room), but the wall did open when Luke requested entrance. 

The major portraits were also introduced, and Luke was quite amused by Sir Cadogan, who insisted that Luke had to "stand fast and do battle!" before being allowed to roam the castle. Snape made a sound suspiciously like a genuinely amused laugh, though Luke wasn't sure, when Luke pointed out to Sir Cadogan that he was a painting, and that Luke didn't see how he could fight the knight. 

The brief tour of the school taught Luke at least one important thing about the wizarding world: space was different. He had seen the outside of the castle, and it looked large, but definitely not large enough to hold seven floors of half-mile long corridors. And he would swear that the turns and twistings they took did not add up to the courtyard shape held by the outside. He supposed he'd get used to it. 

Snape rattled off the rules for all the staircases, which Luke vainly tried to recite back as soon as he'd heard them. But knew that, for a while at least, he wouldn't be able to manage, and resigned himself to wandering around quite a bit and leaving early for his lessons.

Lessons. Panic didn't quite explode, but it began to seep upwards through his stomach and lungs like a disease. 

He hadn't thought about lessons much yet. What exactly was he teaching? He had assigned a book for all students to read, but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be giving instruction in. His instrument? There was no way he was teaching several hundred students to play the harpsichord. Singing? He could sing in tune, but that was about it. Basic theory and musicianship? Perhaps. 

He had just closed the door behind Snape, wishing him a "Good afternoon," when a voice called to him from the fireplace. 

"Luke?" It was Albus' voice, and his head was sitting calmly in the middle of the flames. 

"Albus!" he said, frightened. "Are you all right?" He ran over to try and pull Albus out of the fire, thinking wildly of third-degree burn treatments. To his shock, Albus merely laughed. 

"I'm fine, my dear friend. This is the Floo Network -- we can talk with each other through it. May I come over? We have much to discuss." 

"Uh, of course you can. I'll see you in a few minutes, I gue -- " He broke off, because Albus was now unfolding himself from inside Luke's fireplace. Albus stepped out, dusted himself off, and stood up. 

"How was the tour?" he asked pleasantly, taking a chair. 

"It-it was all right," Luke stammered. "I don't think I'll remember most of it, though. Um, how did you do that?" 

"Floo powder," Albus replied. "It allows us to travel through fireplaces that are hooked up to the Network. The communication aspect works simply by placing one's head in the flames, though you must remember to throw the powder in first. I recall one poor student of mine who forgot once... Terrible burns," he mused thoughtfully. 

Now Luke recalled Wendy ranting about how she wished she could visit him using some sort of fireplace thingy, but Luke hadn't caught the name. Floo powder. Right. He filed it away, and then realized what Albus had said. 

"Was he all right?" asked Luke, startled by Albus' nonchalance. 

"Oh, yes," said Albus blithely. "Madam Pomfrey fixed him in about a day." 

A day? There was that magic again. 

"Now," said Albus briskly, "we need to sort out what your lessons will be this term. There are seven years, four houses, and they can be doubled, but we also have to take into account the electives of various students-" 

"Let me get a notebook out," said Luke, and, getting up, rummaged through his backpack. which, fortunately, Winky had not emptied, and grabbed a blank spiral notebook, a mechanical pencil, and an eraser. 

Dumbledore exclaimed delightedly when he saw what Luke had brought back to the table. "Muggle writing instruments! May I?" he asked, holding out a hand, into which Luke dropped the mechnical pencil. Albus clicked it experimentally, apparently delighted with the way the lead appeared out of the end. "I must show Arthur Weasley one of these days -- he has a real obsession with Muggles; I'm sure he'd love to meet you." He scribbled on Luke's paper. "Delightful." 

"What do you normally use?" asked Luke, holding out his hand for his pencil, which Dumbledore obligingly turned over. 

"Quills, ink, and parchment," said Dumbledore, waving his wand to make them appear. "Quite medieval, really, but we never got into technology the way Muggles did; we still insist on doing everything the way our ancestors did." 

"Is it okay if I use my own things?" asked Luke. Dumbledore's reaction, while amusing, worried him slightly -- he knew he'd stand out as a Muggle, but would these make it even worse? 

"Oh, by all means, go ahead," said Dumbledore. "But I don't know if you'll be able to get more of whatever it is that's filling it-" 

"Lead, we call it." 

"-yes, lead, in Hogsmeade. But don't worry about that for now. Back to the students," he said. "Part of the problem will be placing them." 

"I have to examine every single student?" Luke asked apprehensively. "How many are there?" 

"About three hundred. Don't worry, you'll have the first weekend to do that," Dumbledore assured him, because Luke now looked positively horrified. "The students are arriving on a Friday this year -- you'll have plenty of time. What we need to settle now is when you're lecturing on history. There's no point in having the seventh years sit through history; they won't need it as much as musicianship and theory. But the need for this education is urgent, so we cannot let any student go without learning something. There will be a few who already know their basic theory and who have some sense of pitch, but only a few." He sighed sadly. "Such a loss. So few parents deem music necessary nowadays." 

The local public school in Ottery St. Catchpole had a music teacher, a nice, plump woman called Mrs. Gamut. She was a retired opera singer who had never really made it big in London, but she'd had her moments. After her husband had died and her children had grown up and left, she'd decided that she didn't have the energy to fight tooth and nail in the London opera business, and retired up to this little village to teach music. 

Ginny had been something of her pet. At the age of six, she'd left The Burrow to come and receive a basic education with the Muggle children, and had promptly taken her place in the forty-minute music classes given once a week to all the children. They played with sticks and rhythm makers, sang songs, put on cute little musicals with the rest of the school -- the first-years were always the sheep, no matter what the subject -- and just had a good time. 

Mrs. Gamut had taken Ginny aside one day when she was seven and asked her to sing for her, which Ginny did, singing their latest little song about ducks who went over the hill. 

"My dear," Mrs. Gamut said, "have your mother come and talk to me next week, all right? She and I should have a little talk." 

"Why?" asked Ginny. 

"You have the best sense of pitch in this whole school, dear, and a nice voice, too. Perhaps we can arrange some lessons." 

But the lessons would have cost more than her mother could afford, and Mrs. Gamut, though kindly, was not handing things out for free. So Ginny simply got a lot of attention during class, and a few pointers about singing. 

"Stand up straight, dear," Mrs. Gamut would always tell her when Ginny would start to sing whatever solo they had. 

And now, Hogwarts was offering music as a subject. 

Ginny was thrilled. But she was also deeply regretting that she'd asked her mother for a broomstick in return for being made a prefect. What did she want a broomstick for, now that Harry would be playing again? She had a decent broom, one of Charlie's old ones -- she could play Chaser on that easily. 

What she really wanted now were singing lessons. Perhaps their new professor was a singer; perhaps whoever it was would know some local teachers. 

Ginny sighed and flopped onto her bed, grabbing her Charms text. O.W.L.s were coming up this June, and she had to study. 

Just then, someone knocked on the door. "Come in, Harry," she said. 

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, entering. 

"No one else would knock, not even Hermione." 

Harry smiled. 

"What do you want?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound too rude. 

To her surprise, Harry looked uncomfortable. "I, er, I -- well, first, congratulations on being a prefect." 

"Thanks." 

"And, er, are you still going for Seeker this year?" he asked, though it didn't seem he had come into her room just to ask that. 

"I told you," said Ginny, "that I want to do Chaser. It's much more fun, I think. Besides, you're really good." 

"Oh, thanks," said Harry, now quite pink. "Well, er, all right then. I'll see you around." 

"All right, then," said Ginny. 

"Er, bye then." 

Harry left, closing the door behind him. 

_Now what on earth was that about?_

If truth be told, she and Dean Thomas weren't exactly dating. She'd asked him out, but their letters this summer had been a little lukewarm. Friendly, of course -- he was quite talkative and nice -- but nothing that really got her to the heart. 

She was over Harry, that was certain. No more little-girl crush, no more hero-worship. Harry was just Harry, with socks and underwear -- she giggled -- just like any other boy. You can't really worship someone after you've sorted their socks. 

No, Harry was just Harry, and if anything, she felt sorry for him. Forced to live in a cupboard for ten years, living with those horrible Muggles; nearly getting killed at the end of every school year; having deadly enemies, all that sort of thing. No wonder the poor boy couldn't stand Cho crying all over him. He needed someone to cheer him up. 

Ginny had always been a rather cheerful person. She smiled happily to herself as she got out quill and parchment and started studying. 


	5. Sing, Sing a Song

**Chapter 5: Sing, Sing a Song**

Wendy was sitting on the balcony outside the library when a large brown owl glided over the trees and dropped a letter on her. "Huh?" She looked at the letter now sitting innocently in her lap. It was simply addressed to: 

_Wendy_

in Luke's hand. How had the owl known where to deliver it? Any why was it delivered by owl to begin with? The owl had now perched on the balcony railing and was eyeing her expectantly. 

"Hello, Wendy," came a voice behind her. 

It was Davitt. "Hello," she replied, still staring at the letter. 

"Oh, is that Luke's?" he asked. 

"Yes, he just sent it to me -- " 

"No, the owl," said Davitt, pointing. "Is it his?" 

"I don't know," said Wendy, finally looking up from the letter to see Davitt examining the owl. "It just flew over here and deposited a letter in my lap," she explained, showing him the letter. "I don't know who it belongs to." 

"You might want to feed it before it tears your bag apart," he informed her. The owl was now beginning to peck at her bag, and its beak looked sharp. 

"Oh," she said. "Um -- what do they eat? I think I have some granola in there, but that's all..." 

"They'll eat anything," he assured her. "Shall I take care of it? You'll want to read your letter, I'm sure," he offered, turning to pick up her bag. 

"Oh, please," she said gratefully, carefully opening the envelope. Beside her, Davitt opened her bag and rummaged inside. 

_Dear Wendy, _

You won't believe everything that's happened to me since I arrived. First of all, I'm safe and sound, so don't worry. I had to walk several miles from the nearest train station, though, when I first got here. Hear me groan at the memory. 

Professor Snape's given me a tour of the school, and it's just very weird. Space doesn't seem to stay the same here. The outside of the castle looks like one thing, but the inside looks completely different, and, I swear, the floors move around. I've seen the staircases move with my own eyes. 

The Gryffindor Tower ghost, Sir Nicholas, is very kind. 

Wendy dropped the letter. Ghosts? She turned to ask Davitt, but he was busy with her bag of leftover granola. Shaking her head, she picked it up again, and laughed as she read: 

_I'm sure you just dropped the letter after reading that -- yes, ghosts are real. It seems that wizards can choose when they die whether to stay in the world as a ghost. Very strange. _

What else? Oh, yes. I have to give a placement exam to every student here -- there are about three hundred -- on Saturday and Sunday. They'll be arriving on Friday, and I must confess that I'm really nervous. How will they react to a Muggle teacher? Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster, constantly tells me not to worry, that they'll be as respectful of me as of the other teachers, but they are teenagers. Ages 11-17 -- some of them are even 18, a few as young as 10, though fortunately not many. 

I've made something of a friend in a house-elf (the housekeeping staff here is made up of small creatures with large ears, weird noses, and squeaky voices) called Winky. She's very shy and truly lives to serve, almost as though it makes her high. Odd. But it's not the strangest thing here, and that's saying something. 

Oh, I can't forget to tell you about Hagrid and Firenze. Hagrid is a half-giant who teaches a class called "Care of Magical Creatures," which I suppose is a euphemism for learning how to deal with monsters, judging by the huge beasts he's managed to obtain for this year. A few years ago there were these things called "Blast-Ended Skrewts," crosses between manticores and fire-crabs, I think. I'm sure Davitt can explain these things to you, because my hand is getting tired. 

Firenze -- right. He's a centaur. I'm not kidding. He teaches Divination, fortune-telling. There's another Divination teacher, Sybill Trelawney, and she'd give any of the tarot-readers on Telegraph a run for their money. Shawls, misty voice -- the whole business. 

Okay, I'm going to go now. I'll write again soon. 

Do write back -- this owl should hang around until you do. Her name is Magdalena, but she'll answer to "Mag" or "Magda." You can also send her home -- just give her the address, she's very intelligent. 

Much love, 

Luke 

p.s. The Loch Ness monster is real -- it's in this lake! A giant squid. 

When Wendy looked up from the letter, Davitt was feeding the owl from his hands. "Good letter?" he asked, wincing slightly as Magdalena pecked his hand sharply. 

"Yes," she said, then sighed. "It's just all so strange." She leaned back into the old chair. "One day, I didn't know anything about this, and now -- ghosts are real? And the Loch Ness monster, too?" 

Davitt shook the rest of the granola off his hands and sat down next to her. "You'll adjust," he told her gently. "It's going to be particularly difficult for a while, but it will get more comfortable." 

"Hey! Get off me!" 

"A Mudblood ordering me around? I don't think so, Mudblood. Goyle -- get his arms." There was loud scuffling noise and a piercing yell. Then a drawling voice said, "You don't belong here, Mudblood, don't you know that? You're just a waste of space. I bet you don't know what the Cruciatus Curse is, do you?" He laughed maliciously. "If I had my way, I'd show you firsthand what it --" 

Harry stepped out from the toilet and found the source of the noise. "Let him go," he said. 

"What's it to you, Potter?" sneered Malfoy, though it sounded a little apprehensive. 

"I said, _let him go,_" Harry repeated, pulling out his wand. 

Malfoy, whose own wand was pointed at the first-year's neck, glanced at it, then at Goyle, who still had the struggling kid smothered against his chest. "C'mon," he muttered, turning to go. 

Goyle released the first-year, who wrenched himself free, stepping on Goyle's foot for good measure. Goyle howled with pain. "Stupid kid," he rumbled angrily, looking like he wanted nothing more than to thump him some more. But Malfoy was already halfway down the corridor, and, with a final dirty look at Harry and the first-year, Goyle followed. 

Harry turned to the first year, who was glaring at the floor. "Are you all -- " He broke off as the kid looked up at him. 

"What are you doing here?" they said at the same time. 

"You first," Harry said. 

"I g-got a letter last July," Mark Evans said, stuttering a bit. "An owl flew through my window at the same time this woman came to the door to talk to my parents. They told me I was a wizard and that there was this school for people like me. I mean, I've had strange stuff happen to me for years, but I never thought it was normal, I mean..." 

Harry just stared. This was the little kid that Dudley had constantly beat up on all last summer, the scrawny figure that Harry occasionally saw scuffing his way through the park in the late evenings, accompanied by a stressed-looking young man usually talking on his mobile. 

"You're a wizard, too?" Mark was asking. 

"What? -- Oh, yes," said Harry, surprised. 

It was odd, not having someone automatically know who he was. He'd grown so used to people who met him for the first time always knowing everything about him that he wasn't sure how to introduce himself. He could just imagine: _Hello, my name is Harry Potter. There's a prophecy that says I'm the only person who can kill Lord Voldemort, I've barely escaped from him with my own life intact four times now, how about you?_ That would be a little strange. 

He settled on, "Yes, this is my sixth year." 

"Oh, wow," said Mark. He seemed to want to say more, but was looking very shy. "Well, thanks for helping me out with those jerks," he said, looking at something interesting next to Harry's left elbow. "I guess I'll see you around." And he left, heading up the corridor in the opposite direction of Malfoy and Goyle. 

"What was that all about?" said a voice behind him. It was Ginny, who was coming back from the prefect's carriage. "I saw Malfoy and his cronies stalking back to the Slytherin area, looking like someone had stolen their favorite toy. Is he beating up on a first-year already?" 

"Yeah," said Harry. "Malfoy was threatening to use the Cruciatus on him." 

Ginny gasped. "Seriously?" 

"Yeah." 

"I can't believe Malfoy'd do that," said Ginny, obviously shaken. 

"Can't you?" asked Harry evenly. "Takes after his father," he added in disgust. 

Ginny _hmphed._

"And I know that kid from my neighborhood -- Mark Evans. I never knew he was a wizard. Neither did he, apparently." 

"Wasn't your mother's maiden name Evans?" Ginny asked him curiously a moment later as they headed towards their compartment. 

A memory came to the surface -- his father's voice calling, "Hey, Evans! Evans!" as a girl with long red hair stalked away, disgusted -- "Yeah, it was. Strange," he said. 

  
The Great Hall was full of laughing, chattering children now. Up at the High Table, Luke was sitting nervously next to Quivisianthe Sprout, hoping that this would go smoothly. He'd never been comfortable in front of people, and now not only would he be eating in full view of three hundred students, but Albus would be introducing him. They'd decided to let the students discover on their own that Luke wasn't a wizard; it might diffuse some of the inevitable problems. 

"Some of our parents will not be pleased at having a Muggle teacher in the school," Albus had explained to him earlier that afternoon. "But don't worry about that -- there's no one in the wizarding world who can do your job; no one has the proper training anymore. As I said before, it's a lost art." 

And he wouldn't explain further. 

Ah, well, Luke thought, watching Minerva lead a line of small, nervous-looking first-years into the hall. They arranged themselves in a row with their backs to the High Table, slightly to one side of the Sorting Hat sitting on its three-legged stool. Sprout had been most informative about the Sorting tradition. Luke wasn't sure he liked the idea, but he would watch before making a complete judgment. 

The hat began to sing. 

_"A hat's a hat, is what they say,  
It sits atop your head;  
But I can cap them any day  
Blue, black, brown or red. _

I tell the tale every year  
Of Hogwarts' founding four  
But only when there's danger near  
Do I branch out to more.

I'll sort you into houses here,  
Ravenclaw the bright,  
Gryffindor, who hold so dear  
Bravery and might;

Hufflepuff already have  
Lost one among their number;  
But they hold fast to justice's stave,  
They toil and never slumber; 

Slytherins are cunning folk,  
In peril for their souls;  
Avoid the Dark, or you shall choke  
Upon what he doles." 

Apart from its dire warnings, the tune was very nice. Luke hummed along with it once he'd gotten it down, and somewhere around the fourth verse, began harmonizing with it. 

When the hat had finished singing, everyone applauded, and Professor McGonnagall began to read off names from a long piece of parchment: 

"Adams, Gilbert!" 

A round-faced boy with thick blond hair stumbled up to the stool and placed the hat on his head; it completely covered his eyes. After a few moments, the hat shouted, "Ravenclaw!" and one of the long house tables cheered and clapped as Gilbert made his way to the table. 

It was a little unnerving, Luke decided, having a hat declare which house you belonged in. He'd heard of school houses before, but he'd rather thought they were more of a formality, a way of grouping students who lived together, maybe had a common interest, like sports or volunteer work. Here at Hogwarts, though, it seemed to be a lot more than that: apparently wizards wore their house name with pride for the rest of their lives, and were judged by others on what house they'd been in. There were politics attached to all the houses: Gryffindor for the brave, Ravenclaw for the smart, Slytherin for the ambitious, though, lately, for the Dark, and Hufflepuff for the boring. He rather thought that the system encouraged stereotyping, and having a hat look inside your head and tell you where you belonged seemed to truncate any chance of a child discovering for themselves what kind of person they were. Especially at ten or eleven! 

He watched "Evans, Mark!" go to Gryffindor, and "Felton, Thomas!" to Slytherin, and tuned out again, gazing around the Great Hall. 

Most of the students were watching the Sorting, except for a trio at the Gryffindor table. Three students -- looked like some of the upper level, perhaps fifth or sixth year -- were deep in whispered conversation, their black, brown, and red heads close together. Over at the table where Slytherin House sat, a pale boy with sliver-blond hair was watching the Sorting with an expression of extreme smugness. 

Luke realized that the hall's silence was now punctuated with whispers. He tried to remember the last name mentioned. Yes: "Lestrange, Rigel." What was the big deal? 

The students from Slytherin, not just the pale blond boy, were looking all very smug, and the three other houses were looking at Rigel as though he were something evil and hated already. The kid was eleven, and everyone hated him already? 

As Rigel sat on the stool, Luke heard some of the mutters: "Lestrange? _The_ Lestrange?" "How did they have a kid while in Azkaban?" And from Sprout beside him, "The poor child -- having that for parents!" 

"What happened?" Luke asked her quietly, but she shook her head, watching the hat. 

There was a good minute's worth of silence -- you could have heard a pin drop in the hall. A few coughs were hastily stifled. Then, "Ravenclaw!" was proclaimed. 

No one cheered. Rigel, who looked startled, stood up slowly, carefully placed the hat back on its stool, and walked with mature dignity to the Ravenclaw table. All eyes were on him. A few people scooted out of his way to make room, but no one shook his hand, no one clapped him on the back. 

After a moment, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, rattled her parchment, and called out, "MacKenzie, Laurel!" and the ceremony continued. 

When the last student had finally been sorted, Professor Dumbledore stood up. He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but had said no more than, "Welco -- " when a voice interrupted him. 

_"I've sorted every person in this hall,  
The students, teachers, ghosts -- I've done them all.  
Yet one remains, unknown, behind me here:  
Young man, the hat must know you for this year."_

It was the hat, chanting in ten-syllable lines. 

Whispers broke out all over the hall again, and all eyes were on Dumbledore. He smiled bemusedly and chuckled. "It appears that the Sorting Hat has decided to begin the introductions for me!" he exclaimed. He turned to look down the table at Luke. "Luke, I suppose it wants to sort you." 

Luke stared at Dumbledore. "What?" he said, his throat dry. "Me?" 

"Yes, you," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. He turned to the students. "May I introduce to you Professor Luke Navarra. As I'm sure you all noticed, music has been added to the curriculum this year. Professor Navarra, who is from America, will be teaching all of you. And it appears that the Sorting Hat would like to sort him!" 

Sprout poked him hard in the side. "Go on!" she hissed encouragingly. "Just try the hat on!" 

He stood up, the scraping of his chair sounding extremely loud in the silence. Aware that everyone was watching him, aware that he was undoubtedly turning bright red, he walked around the High Table and down the three steps to the main level of the hall. The fifteen feet between him and the hat seemed to stretch for a mile, each step lasting a century. But he was finally there, in front of the whole school, all of them whispering and muttering. 

He heard one voice say, "I don't know why they want to teach us music -- useless, in my opinion," and looked up. The speaker was an Asian girl of about seventeen, and she met his eyes, fully aware that he had heard what she had said, daring him to reproach her. 

An eternity passed in that moment when their eyes met. Should he respond? Should he ignore her, pretend he hadn't heard? That would be the easy course. Just ignore it and keep walking. But he'd regret it forever if he didn't speak up -- and he'd appear weak and easy to control to the students. 

He stopped, stood in place for a long moment, and turned to look at her. "Young lady," he said, and his voice cracked. How embarrassing! He cleared his throat and raised his voice. "Young lady, I would ask that you not judge the subject until you know something about it." Inspiration struck him. "I am sure that if you had any knowledge whatsoever about music, you would not call it useless." Everyone laughed, and the girl went brick red, looking away. 

Luke sat down, feeling incredibly pleased with himself for handling the situation. His pleasure at not going to pieces was slightly marred as he realized that the stool was very short, just the right height for a ten-year-old. Minerva, whose thin mouth was not quite as thin as usual, ceremoniously placed the hat on his head. It did not cover his eyes, and he could see the whole school watching him. 

Then a voice spoke in his ear. "You're wondering why I want to sort you." 

_Well, yes,_ Luke thought. _I mean, I'm just a Muggle, and I'm not even a student._

"I could hear you humming along with me after the first verse tonight. Rare talent, that is." 

_Learning a tune?_ Luke asked incredulously. _It wasn't even a hard tune, just a little ditty, up and down the octave -- _

"Yes, but you'll find most wizards can't do that. Music has a special power here, and a lot of families now neglect the training. Well, let's see where to put you." 

_It doesn't really matter,_ Luke told the hat. _I don't think much of the house idea anyway,_ he confessed. _It seems to cause a lot of prejudice._

"It does at that," the hat admitted, "but it's what I'm for. I warned them last year about the danger of division." It paused, as though sighing thoughtfully. "However, I shall sort you as tradition decrees. Let's see. You're perfectly intelligent, you're a very hard worker, but you're not used to being on display -- oh, yes, I can tell, you hate being in front of the crowd right now. What else is there? Yes, you're quite talented, but you're not very driven. If you were more ambitious, I'd put you in Slytherin just to see the uproar it caused -- a Muggle, sorted into Slytherin! they'd say. You're brave, though, yes, very brave. As much as you hate being right here, you're still doing it. You'd make a fine Gryffindor, or Hufflepuff. Not quite the mind for Ravenclaw; intelligent, yes, but not the same kind of wit. Well, which will it be? Gryffindor or Hufflepuff?" 

The hat let the question hang -- it was apparently waiting for him to decide. 

_Uh -- isn't that your decision?_ he asked. 

"From one who just told me that he thought the Sorting caused prejudice? From one who thinks that sorting students so young doesn't give them the chance to find out who they are?" 

This was true, Luke thought irritably. He just wanted to get off this stupid stool. _What difference does it make?_ he asked, nettled. 

"There's a lot of politics involved, as you've guessed. Each house stands behind its members, defending them and supporting them. Whichever you choose, the students here will forever associate you with it." 

_Then I guess I should have authority. Whatever will make the students think that I'm in charge of them._

"Authority? Are you sure? It comes with a price -- many students will dislike you for your label." 

_I'm sure._

"Well, if you're sure...then you want -- GRYFFINDOR!" said the hat, shouting the name to the rest of the hall. 

The students clapped politely, though the Gryffindor table on the far side let out a few catcalls. He caught a glimpse of the three students who'd been ignoring the ceremony before now applauding him. Luke stood up, gave the hat back to Minerva, and walked back to his seat at the High Table. 

"Well, now that that's taken care of," said Dumbledore, laughter in his voice, "let us eat!" 

And the food appeared on the tables. Luke was now used to strange things happening, so he served himself some vegetables and turned towards Sprout, who was serving herself roast potatoes. "That was interesting," he said. 

"Mm," she replied noncommittally. She seemed a little disgruntled, but as the minutes passed in companionable silence, the tension dissipated. They ate for a quite a while before he remembered that he'd wanted to ask her something. 

"What was the deal with that student?" he asked, "the one that everyone went silent for?" 

"Oh," she said, swallowing, "it's a long story. Rigel Lestrange is the son of two of Azkaban's worst prisoners, Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange." She was evidently warming to her topic, because her eyes gleamed. "No one knows how it happened, but about three years after they were imprisoned, Bellatrix became pregnant. How anyone could do it in there, I don't know," she added, shuddering. "Anyways, the child was born inside Azkaban, but he was raised in Ministry foster care. You wouldn't want a child exposed to those Azkaban guards so young." 

"Is that why everyone was startled?" Luke asked. 

"Well, of course! You'd expect a Lestrange to go into Slytherin, that entire family have all been dark wizards," she said. 

"Isn't that a little presumptious?" 

"Isn't what?" 

"Expecting a child to go into the same house as his parents? I mean, children are so different from their parents, you can't expect them to follow in their footsteps." He thought this sounded perfectly reasonable, but Professor Sprout didn't answer, and the tension was back. 

When the meal was over, the plates cleaned themselves, and Luke leaned back in his chair. He felt deliciously full and tired. 

Dumbledore stood up. "I have a few announcements to make, and two introductions. First of all, I am delighted to see each and every one of you back here. Hogwarts is the safest place for all of you to be, with events as they are." 

There was a lot of muttering at that. 

"We have two new teachers this year," he continued over the whispering. "You have all been introduced to Professor Navarra already, thanks to the Sorting Hat -- " A few people chuckled at that. " -- but there is one new teacher who couldn't be here tonight. Our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor will be arriving tomorrow, and I invite all of you to drop by her office and meet her, Professor Nymphadora Tonks." 

When the applause, which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table, died down, Dumbledore continued, "All of you will need to see Professor Navarra this weekend so he can place you into the proper class for this term. The lists of assigned times can be found in your house common rooms. Quidditch tryouts will be held in the second week of term; please see Madam Hooch if you are interested. As always, please note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. Argus Filch, the caretaker, would like me to remind you that magic is not allowed in the corridors between classes. I think that's everything. And now, it's time for bed." 

The hall slowly emptied, students chattering, yawning, rubbing their stomachs. 

The next day seemed to last forever. The auditions were split up into two days, with Slytherin and Hufflepuff on the first day, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor on the second. Most of the students, as the hat had predicted, had absolutely no training and no talent. 

Somewhere around ten in the morning came a young man called Vincent Crabbe, though, who gave Luke some hope. Vincent knew nothing about music theory, couldn't play an instrument, but when Luke picked out a melody on the harpsichord -- a beautifully maintained 18th century one, with two manuals and a lute stop, all the gadgets a keyboardist could wish for -- Vincent sang it back to him in a suprisingly rich baritone voice. And when Luke asked him to sing harmony to his melody, Vincent sang wonderfully. 

Most of the students in Slytherin House treated Luke with a modicum of respect, calling him "Professor," and "sir," though one or two said it quite sneeringly. Draco Malfoy, one of the few students who could already read music -- "Oh, of course I can, my father taught me; all our family knows" -- and could pick out a tune on the keyboard at standard sight-reading tempo (one... and... two... and... ), walked the line very skillfully between outright rudeness and simple disrespect. 

In the afternoon came Hufflepuff House, with some more students who could already read music. All of the Hufflepuffs were very friendly. Most were a little uncertain of themselves, but they were all very open and honest. Hannah Abbott, the first of his afternoon auditions, reminded Luke of something he hadn't thought about yet -- female hormones. 

The students were instructed to line up outside his office, three students to every ten-minute block. When he opened the door and called out, "Is Hannah Abbott here?" a young woman of about sixteen answered. He followed her into the office, gesturing for her to take a seat by the harpsichord. 

"Hi, Hannah," he said, smiling. He was trying to learn as many names as possible on these days, since he'd have to know all of them eventually. Blond hair, pale-pink skin, neither pretty nor ugly. Sixth-year, Hufflepuff. 

"Hello, Professor," she said shyly. Then she blushed. 

"Now, there's nothing to be nervous about," he told her. "I just want to know how much experience you have." 

Her mouth twitched. 

Oh, dear, he thought, remembering his own mind at sixteen. _Experience_ indeed -- completely the wrong word. Oh, well. "Have you had any musical training, Hannah?" 

"A little," she said. "My parents have a clavichord and I can pick out notes; I'm not very good at reading music, though." 

"Why don't you come to the keyboard and try to read what I have there?" He gestured to the music desk, which held a little minuet in C major, just something he'd written very quickly that morning. 

Hannah sat down, still blushing furiously, and placed her hands over the keyboard. To his surprise, she placed them correctly, in what was known as the "cat's paw" position -- fingers hanging loosely from the palms, the entire hand kept in front of the raised keys. She began playing, a little slowly to be sure, but in proper minuet style, with accents on every other bar and a lilt to the third beat. 

Luke found himself smiling, wondering what any of his teachers would say if they knew where he was, with a student who couldn't read music very well but knew how to play a minuet. 

"That was lovely," he said with genuine appreciation, when she'd finished. It was only sixteen bars long and had taken half a minute to play. "Do you know any musical theory?" 

"Well, I know the theory of figured bass, but I can't -- what's the word for playing it? -- right, realize it very well." 

"It's more than most people," he told her reassuringly. "It's a big advantage that you can already read music. Now, I'd like you to sing what I play." 

He played for her a short tune, which she sang back to him, missing only a few notes, but getting the general idea. 

"That was very good," he told her. "I think that's all I need. Can you send in the next person, please?" But she was still standing there, very pink. "Is there something else?" he asked her politely. 

"Um, Professor," she said, her voice very nervous, "um, doyouhaveagirlfriend?" 

"Excuse me?" he asked, not having understood what she'd said. 

"Are you -- I mean, do you -- do you have a girlfriend in America?" She was extremely pink now, and Luke wanted to laugh. 

He forced it down. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," he told her after he'd regained control of his expression. "I'm hoping she'll join me at Christmas." 

"Oh." Her face fell. "Um. Thanks." And she left, sending in Susan Bones after her. 

Later that morning, Luke shook his head at the all the wide-eyed, giggly girls he'd encountered so far. Hannah's interest had only been the start, with a few titters coming even from some of the second-years students. He wasn't handsome or anything, but he wasn't bad to look at. He was, however, much older than they. 

And hungry, he realized as his stomach rumbled. He could still make it to dinner. 

The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was there when he walked in. He knew she had to be the one, because he hadn't met her at the staff meeting. 

"Wotcha," she said brightly, as he sat down next to her. "The name's Tonks." She held out a hand, which he shook. She had a very strong grip. 

Luke supposed "wotcha" was a greeting. "Hi," he said. "I'm Luke." 

"Yeah, I know," she said, turning back to her beef. "You're that new music teacher from America -- I can hear the accent." 

She was very pretty, Luke decided, watching her as they ate and talked. Tonks, he learned, was a professional Auror -- a dark-wizard catcher -- but had gotten injured last June and had decided to take a year off to recover not only her strength, but also her nerves. "Most Aurors get injured on the job at one point or another, so it's no big thing," she said. "But I just don't feel ready to go back yet, and, honestly, these kids need a decent teacher." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Where have you been?" she said, surprised, then answered it herself, "Oh, right, America. For the past five years they've had one horrible teacher after another. First Quirrel, who taught nothing beyond legends and mythology -- garlic, really!" she exclaimed, and then looked at him expectantly. He smiled weakly. "And then he wound up dead -- " 

"Dead?" Luke nearly choked, spitting food all over himself. "Excuse me," he said, reaching for his napkin. He wiped his mouth. "Um, dead?" 

"Oh, yes," said Tonks absently. "He was possessed by You-Know-Who," she explained, as though that should be enough. "Then Gilderoy Lockhart, the smarmy git, who spent all his time telling them about things he'd supposedly done, but had actually just taken credit for -- very handy with Obliviate, he was -- and wound up in St. Mungo's with his memory gone. Then there was Remus Lupin. He did a good job, from what I've heard, but when they found out he was a werewolf -- " 

Luke did choke this time, and spat water all over the tablecloth. "Wer -- werewolf?" he sputtered. 

A look of comprehension came over her face. "You're a Muggle!" she exclaimed. "No wonder it's all such a shock -- no wonder you don't know any of the history. I don't believe it -- Dumbledore's finally hired a Muggle!" She laughed out loud. 

"Keep your voice down," he warned her, aware that there were still a few students in the Great Hall, several of whom were now looking interestedly up at them as Tonks howled. "Albus wants to keep it quiet, let it filter its way through the students. I'll attract less attention that way." 

She sobered immediately. "You're right, of course -- sorry about that. Anyways, yes, werewolves -- Remus Lupin. Right. So when everyone found out he was a werewolf, he left, and old Mad-Eye Moody got the job, only it wasn't him, it was a Death Eater who was impersonating him using Polyjuice Potion; and then last year they had that hag, Dolores Umbridge, a Ministry witch who kept them as downtrodden as possible. Of course, Harry Potter had his little group of students, and they learned quite a bit -- " 

"Who?" 

"Harry Potter -- oh, of course you wouldn't know -- " 

She paused. The serving platters had suddenly vanished -- apparently dinner was over. "We can keep talking in my rooms, if you'd like," Luke offered. "There's so much I don't know, and no one's really explained it all." 

He was cute; pity he already had a girlfriend, Tonks thought as she left his suite of rooms. But Muggles had a thing with long-distance relationships, didn't they? No Apparition, no Floo network; you had to travel to visit someone. Maybe it wouldn't last, she found herself thinking hopefully as she made her way up the staircases back to her own rooms. Then she mentally slapped herself for wanting to break up a couple. 

She'd spent a long time explaining all about the events of the past sixteen years, and then about Harry and his time at Hogwarts. Tonks passed a familiar portrait, whose occupants, young ladies in crinolines, raised their eyebrows and looked down their thin noses at her pink hair. She smiled cheekily at them, and wriggled her fingers in greeting, squashing the tempation to make any ruder gesture. 

Merlin, it was good to be back at Hogwarts. The rambling corridors, the food, the happy young people, the food, the house-elf service, the food... she laughed aloud. Cooking was never one of her strong points; she always managed to spill at least half of whatever she was trying to prepare, and then half of what made it onto her plate. 

She had just sat down at the desk in her office, intending to begin a lesson plan, when there came a knock on the door. It was Harry. 

"Wotcher, Harry," she said brightly. "Come in." 

He came in, looking thoroughly miserable. 

"How're things?" she asked. 

"Why are you here?" he asked abruptly as he sat down. "I mean, it's great and everything, but why aren't you back at the Ministry?" 

"I wanted to take a year off," she said. "After last June, you know, I had to go to St. Mungo's, and I just couldn't quite face the idea of getting back into it right away. Besides," she added with a grin, because he was looking even more upset, "you needed a decent teacher." 

He looked a little less glum at that, though still depressed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "It's all my fault -- if I hadn't been tricked by that dream, if I had done Occlumency a little better, then no one would have -- would have di -- been hurt." 

_Sirius,_ Tonks thought with a wave of anguish. "Oh, Harry," she said sympathetically. "It's not all your fault. If Dumbledore had told you earlier, it wouldn't have happened; if Sirius and the rest of us hadn't gone there, you all would have been killed. You can keep saying 'if' as long as you like, but it doesn't do anyone any good," she said gently, because he looked like he was going to cry. "But we have important things to talk about, Harry," she said suddenly. 

"Yeah? What?" he said sullenly. 

"Dumbledore's Army." 

He brightened slightly. "You heard about the D.A.?" 

Tonks nodded. "Yep. Dumbledore told us -- the Order, that is -- all about it. How you managed to whip thirty students into shape in a few months, how six of you held off as many Death Eaters, duelled them to a draw." 

Harry was beginning to look slightly pleased with himself. 

"It's a major accomplishment," she continued. "I'm -- no, _we_ -- are really proud of you." 

"Thanks," he mumbled, his cheeks pink. 

"So, I need to know exactly what was covered, and what students were in the group, so I can plan the lessons accordingly." 

Harry straightened his back, apparently without noticing, and frowned, obviously trying to remember. "We started with Expelliarmus," he began. "Then I moved on to Stunning, and Reductor Curses..." 

Tonks was impressed. Harry's voice had undergone a major change when he began to talk about the D.A. It became firmer, more certain. Defense was definitely his strongest subject, and he evidently loved teaching it. He had an excellent memory, too, she realized as she scribbled down notes on each student. Harry remembered, even after the summer, each of the students' exact progress, and how far they had come with each spell. 

Harry finally finished talking, and Tonks put down her quill. "Is that everything?" he asked. 

"I certainly hope so." She stretched her arms over her head, then relaxed into her chair. "Looks like you managed to cover much of sixth year work. Especially Patronuses -- though, as you've said, they still need work. It's very advanced magic, and I'm impressed that so many students could manage them." 

"Well, there weren't any dementors around." 

She laughed. "That's true. But I think that's all I need. See you in class, then!" 

Harry left, looking much more cheerful than when he'd arrived. 

Luke decided that the Ravenclaws on Sunday morning weren't as well trained as the Hufflepuffs and the Slytherins, and many of them seemed to think it a waste of time. Cho Chang, the girl who had made the comment at the Welcoming Feast, was particularly sullen as Luke told her she'd need to start at the beginning. Rigel Lestrange could read music, though, and wasn't too incompetent -- nor was he competent. In fact, the boy was decidedly average. 

Luke sighed as the last Ravenclaw, Terry Zabini, an older sibling of Blaise over in Slytherin, closed the door. It was lunchtime, and he was starving, but he had so much organizing to do that he didn't think he wanted to spend the hour in the Great Hall. Then again, he did want a break. 

There was a knock on the door. 

"Come in," he said. 

Tonks poked her head around. "Coming to lunch?" she asked brightly. 

He groaned and shook his head. "No, there's too much work to do. I've just finished testing over two hundred students, and there are seventy more to go -- all of Gryffindor House." 

"Wow. You have to test them all?" asked Tonks, her eyes widening. 

"Of course. I can't place them in musicianship classes without knowing how much they know already." 

"And I thought I had it bad," she said. "I've just got to catch the students up on what they missed last year under Umbridge, and prepare them for this year's exams. Two years of work in one year." 

"That's gotta be tough." 

There was a moment of silence that became awkward as the seconds stretched. 

"Anyways," said Tonks abruptly, "You should really eat something, or you won't last the afternoon." 

"But I don't have the time to spend in the Great Hall -- " 

"No need. Is there a house-elf around?" she asked. 

"Um, there's Winky, who cleans my room -- " 

"Winky!" Tonks hollered, making Luke jump. "Whoops, sorry," she said. "Didn't mean to startle you." 

There was a faint _pop!_ as Winky appeared out of nowhere. "Miss is calling Winky?" she asked. 

"Yeah. Winky, can you bring us lunch for two?" 

"Of course, Miss, right away." Winky disappeared with another pop! and was back a few seconds later, accompanied by several other elves, all wearing hand towels stamped with the Hogwarts crest and bearing a large silver platter full of sandwiches, jugs of juice, and pieces of cake. Luke watched in mildly stunned silence as the elves set up the meal on a side table. They arranged the plates of sandwiches and cake in the middle, conjured golden plates and goblets, and poured the juice into the goblets before disappearing. Winky remained. "Is that good, sir and miss?" 

"Oh, it's wonderful Winky, thanks," said Luke gratefully. The elf disappeared. 

"So," said Tonks as she sat down and grabbed a sandwich, "tell me about these tests." 

Luke explained about dictation -- "You mean you've got to write down what someone sings to you? That sounds hard!" -- and about singing back -- "But what if you can't remember it?" -- and related the lovely way Hannah Abbott had played her minuet. Then he hesitated, wanting to tell her what else Hannah Abbott had done. Was it too personal? He didn't know Tonks very well... but she seemed very nice. 

"And just as she was about to leave, the weirdest thing happened." 

"Oh yeah?" asked Tonks, who was focused on the last bit of icing on her cake. 

"She asked me if I had a girlfriend -- " Tonks' eyes snapped up to his face. " -- and I told her yes, but Wendy's in the U.S. and won't be here until Christmas." He smiled sheepishly. "She seemed really disappointed. But, I mean, I'm twenty-five, she's sixteen -- how could she have a crush on me?" 

Tonks' mouth was slightly open and her eyes were focused on Luke's chin. "Well, you're pretty good-looking," she said. Then she froze, as though just realizing what she'd said. "Er. I'll see you at dinner, then." 

She scampered out of the room, leaving Luke confused. Wendy had always said she liked the way he looked, but Wendy was in love with him, and she was biased. 

Never mind all that, it was one o'clock and he had Gryffindor House to prepare for. 

Hermione scowled as she walked down the staircases towards Professor Navarra's office. Music! Of all things, why did they have to clutter up her schedule with music? If she'd wanted to learn about music, she'd check a book out of the library. Voldemort was back, Harry was in danger, and Dumbledore wanted them to learn how to sing? She made a small noise of disgust. 

"Oh, hello," said a voice nearby. It was Vicky Frobisher, now a fourth-year and vice president of the Charms Club. 

"Hello, Vicky," said Hermione cordially. "Are you here for your test, too?" 

"Yes," said Vicky. "He's taking us in alphabetical order. And he's running behind." She sounded mildly annoyed. 

There were a couple of nervous first-years hunched over by the wall, watching the two older girls converse. "Hello," said Hermione kindly. "I'm Hermione Granger, what are your names?" 

"I'm Jane Gamble," said one girl, holding out her hand. Hermione shook it. 

"I'm James Gamble," said the boy. 

"Oh, are you twins, then?" said Hermione. 

They nodded. 

Jane opened her mouth to say more, but the door opened, and Luke poked his head out. "Vicky -- uh -- Frobisher?" he called. 

Vicky got up, dusting off her hands. "See you," she said to the other three, and disappeared inside as Seamus walked out. 

"Hi, Hermione," he said. 

"How is the test?" she asked, hopefully not sounding too nervous. 

"Oh, not bad," he said. "He just sings to you, asks you if you know how to read music, has you write a bit of dictation." 

Hermione blanched. "Dictation?" she whispered. "We have to write down what he sings to us?" 

"Yeah," said Seamus. "It wasn't too hard. You'll do fine, you always do," he added cheerfully. "See you!" And he disappeared off up the corridor. 

Hermione stared at his retreating back. Seamus' cheerful reassurance, "You'll do fine, you always do," echoed in her head. Did she always do "fine" on tests? She supposed she did. But music -- she knew next to nothing about music, although she could recite Weird Sisters lyrics with the best of them. Memorization was easy. 

She slumped against the wall, feeling distincly uncomfortable. How would it look if Hermione Granger did poorly on a test? She could imagine the look of disappointment on her parents' faces if they heard she'd not gotten top marks on something. And what if -- she shuddered at the thought -- what if she completely failed? Hermione buried her head in her knees and ignored the Gamble twins' whispered conversation. 

Time passed, and Vicky came back out. "He wants James," she said to the twins. James got up and went inside the room. 

"How was it?" she asked Vicky. 

"Oh, not bad. I've never been able to read music, so that's a big drawback. But he said my voice was all right, and I could carry a tune." 

"How is he ranking us?" asked Hermione. 

"I don't really know," said Vicky, frowning. "I think he just wants to know how much he has to teach us. Can you imagine," she added, laughing suddenly, "how much work that's going to be, teaching three hundred students? All on your own?" 

"The other teachers manage just fine," said Hermione, feeling nettled for some reason. 

"Yes, well, music's a lot more complicated," said Vicky matter-of-factly. "I have to go, Hermione. I'll see you around." 

"See you." 

Vicky left, and Hermione buried her head in her knees again. If she listened carefully, she could hear the faint sounds of music coming from the room in front of her. She didn't recognize the instrument, though. Her grandmother had a piano, and Hermione had, when she was much younger, sat at the bench and dribbled notes out of it, but she knew next to nothing about the instrument apart from how it sounded. Whatever was making the sound in there wasn't a piano, however. It sounded vaguely metallic and plonky. 

The music stopped, and a few moments later, James came out. He grinned at his twin, who grinned back before entering the room herself. 

"See you," James said to Hermione, and left. 

She was now all alone in the corridor, with only her mounting nervousness and feeling of inadequacy. She wondered absently where the students after her were, then remembered that there was a twenty-minute break after her name. Well, with the way things were running late now, Professor Navarra would be likely to get a two-minute break after Hermione. _Well,_ she told herself, _it's not like my test's going to take that long -- a few seconds and then, "Oh, you obviously don't know anything. I'll have to put you in with all the beginners."_

She scowled again. _Focus,_ she told herself firmly. She could hear more noises from inside the room, and two voices laughing -- one high, one deep. 

Then Jane came out, also smiling. "He wants you," she said to Hermione. 

Hermione stood up, using the wall for support. She pressed her hands into the cold stone behind her, as though trying to get more than a physical sense of security from them, then entered the room. What was coming, would come, and she'd meet it when it did. 

Professor Navarra's office was rather larger than the other teachers' offices, perhaps to house whatever keyboard instrument it was that was sitting in the middle. There was a desk off to one side, covered in paper -- notepaper, Hermione noticed -- and a handful of chairs. 

"Hello," he said. "Hermione Granger?" 

To Hermione's surprise, he pronounced her name correctly, not mangling it to "Hermy-own," the way others had. "Yes," she said, coming to stand in the middle of his office. 

"Do sit down," he said, indicating the nearest chair. He sat down as well, settling a notepad on his knee. "Now, can you tell me what sort of musical experience you have?" 

He was holding a pen in his hand, and Hermione stared at it a moment before answering. "None at all," she said. 

"All right," he said, writing on the paper. 

"Actually," Hermione began. 

He looked up. 

"My grandmother -- she's a singer -- had a piano, and I used to sit and it and pick on the notes. They sort of dribbled out, not really music..." she trailed off. She was rambling, and she knew it. 

"All right," said Professor Navarra, and Hermione tried not to wince at the American accent. "Your grandmother sang?" he asked, evidently trying to put her at her ease. 

"Yes, she was a singer for several years at the -- well, at an opera house." Hermione supposed that any wizard teacher probably wouldn't know of the London Metropolitan Opera, which was a fully Muggle establishment, as far as she knew. She wondered sometimes, though. 

"Oh, which one?" asked Professor Navarra, apparently interested. "Was it here in Britain?" 

"The London Metropolitan Opera," she said, waiting for his look of blankness. 

Instead, he smiled. "Excellent company," he said, scribbling away. Then he paused. "Wait -- your last name's Granger? Is this grandmother Caroline Granger, by any chance?" 

Hermione stared. How on earth would he know that? She nodded suspiciously. Then it dawned on her -- the pen, the paper, the London Metropolitan... "You're a Muggle!" she exclaimed. 

"Yeah," he said. 

"And Dumbledore let you teach here?" she asked incredulously. "I'm sorry," she said hastily, realizing how rude that must have sounded. 

"It's all right, Hermione -- " 

Another Americanism -- calling students by their first names. Hermione shuddered inwardly. 

" -- just keep it to yourself. We want it to filter slowly around the school, rather than draw attention to it." 

She nodded. 

"Now, if you can come to the harpsichord and sing back to me?" 

"What's a harpsichord?" Hermione asked. 

"This," said Professor Navarra, leading her over to the keyboard instrument. "It's -- " A pained expression crossed over his face as he pulled off a small board stretching over the body, parallel to the keyboard. " -- a bit like a piano. Here, take a look." 

Hermione dutifully peered in. 

"As I press the key, it send the jack upwards to pluck the string. See?" He demonstrated for her. 

Hermione could see how when he pressed the key, a small piece of wood with a small thorn on the end came up to pluck the string; when the key was let back up, the "jack," as he had called it, fell back down without plucking. "That's neat," said Hermione, and meant it. 

"Now, we ought to get on with your exam, since I'm already running late. I'm going to play a short melody and then you sing it back to me." 

He played six or seven notes, and Hermione stood there, completely unable to remember any of them. "Er," she said, "can I hear it again?" 

He played it again, and she tried. She knew she was singing all over the place, but she tried. Though Professor Navarra's face was set in a wooden mask of no expression, Hermione could tell by his body language that she was completely off the mark. 

After three more tries, he finally stopped her. "Let's just see if you can match pitch," he said brusquely. 

Hermione felt like crying. She was the granddaughter of a famous singer, and she couldn't match pitch! He played a note, and she listened to it, hard. Then she sang a note, and they sounded different -- but she had no idea whether she was higher or lower. 

He played the note again, and she kept singing, her voice wavering and cracking, somewhere miles away from the actual pitch. It felt awful. 

She couldn't take it any more. Hermione burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. 

"What's the matter?" Professor Navarra asked her kindly, patting her on the back. 

"I can't do this!" she wailed. "I'm supposed to be able to do anything, and I can't do this!" 

"That's all right," said Navarra, still patting her. "There are a lot of students who haven't had any musical training; you're not the only one." 

"But that's the problem!" cried Hermione. "I'm not like all the other students! I'm Hermione Granger, I'm the smartest witch of my generation, why can't I match pitch?" 

She heard the professor sigh. "I'm sorry," she sniffed. "Maybe I should just go." 

"No, don't," he said gently. "Let's get you sorted out first. If your grandmother was Caroline Granger, then there's no reason you shouldn't be able to match pitch. Music runs in the blood, just like magic." 

"But Gram wasn't a witch!" Hermione wailed, now feeling thoroughly wretched. "I'm the first of my family to come to Hogwarts. What if -- what if I got the magic genes instead of the music? Maybe that's why I can't sing," she said wildly. 

"I'm sure you can sing, if you put your mind to it," he said confidently. 

She looked up at him. 

He smiled encouragingly at her. "Let's try and get you to match that pitch, and then you can go and wash your face, all right?" 

Hermione didn't want to stay and be humiliated any longer, but he was a professor, and she was determined to do her best. 

He hit a note on the keyboard. "It would be easier if the note didn't die away," he said absently. 

"Oh, that's easy to fix," Hermione said, feeling a surge of confidence. This was something she could do. "The sound resonates in the wood, right?" she asked. 

When he nodded, she took out her wand and thought for a second. _"Elongatus sonorus!"_ she intoned, tapping the side of the box three times. 

The harpsichord glowed purple for a second and seemed to wriggle in space, then was still. 

Professor Navarra experimentally hit a note, and it resonated long after he'd struck it. He released the key, and the sound stopped. 

"Wow," he said. "That's cool." He looked at Hermione admiringly, and she felt herself go pink. He was rather handsome. 

"Anyways, let's get you to match that pitch." He hit the note again, and Hermione, feeling a little better, opened her mouth. 

"Just sing, and I'll tell you up or down," Professor Navarra said over the noise. "Okay, up, up -- no, not that far, back down -- a little further up -- there you go!" he exclaimed. 

Hermione had run out of breath. "Try again," he said. She opened her mouth and let fly. "That's closer -- up a little -- up a little more -- that's it!" 

Hermione tried again, and again, and after several minutes, could mostly hit the pitch. It felt weird, though, as though something in her body weren't quite aligned. 

"One more try," she begged as Professor Navarra glanced at the clock. His twenty-minute break was over. 

He paused for a moment. "All right," he said finally. He hit the note again, and Hermione focussed all her attention on it, trying to feel the sound in in her bones. 

She concentrated for a moment, then opened her mouth and sang. 

There was a rush of wind as her voice matched the pitch perfectly, and all she could see for a long moment was bright gold light. She tried to stop singing, but couldn't, and stared around in amazement at the shimmering. Through it, she could see the professor gaping at her, his hand still poised over the keyboard, immobile. Hermione felt wonderful! Exultant, ecstatic, elated! The world was aligned, her voice matching perfectly -- but she was running out of breath... 

The rushing noise died, and the light faded, and Hermione slumped back into the nearest chair, exhausted. 

"What the hell was that?" said Professor Navarra slowly. 

"I -- I don't know, sir," said Hermione, breathing heavily. She felt as though she'd just run several miles. 

"Well," and he laughed, "I guess you can indeed match pitch if you put your mind to it. And don't call me sir -- it makes me feel old." 

Hermione laughed shakily. 

"We'll have to ask Dumbledore about that, though," said Professor Navarra. "Why don't you send in the next person, and we can talk in class? Oh, before you leave, you'd better disenchant my harpsichord." 


	6. Eight Days A Week

**Chapter Six -- Eight Days A Week**

Luke contemplated cancelling all his remaining placement tests and running over to Albus' office to ask about -- well, about whatever the hell it was had happened with Hermione, but there were still at least forty more students to place. He realized he wasn't going to get a break. 

Sighing, he went to the door to the corridor, opened it, and poked his head out. A handful of semi-nervous teenagers sat against the wall. 

"Is Geoffrey Hooper here?" 

The testing continued; the H's to the P's were pretty uneventful. There was one very promising student, though, named Neville Longbottom. The boy was quite uncertain of himself, though Luke couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Neville had near-perfect pitch, could carry a tune, was just as capable as Hannah Abbott of reading music. His singing voice wasn't gorgeous, but it was accurate, which was more than any of the previous students could boast. Luke was very happy to tell Neville that he'd be able to skip most of the basic musicianship, and that he was one of the best students Luke had yet encountered. Neville looked extremely surprised, then gave a faint smile and practically fled. 

Around four in the afternoon, the extremely flirtatious Parvati Patil finally left, taking her tone-deafness with her, and a thin boy with untidy black hair and round glasses walked into the room. 

"You must be --" Luke consulted the class roster. "-- Harry Potter." Then he blinked down at the name. Potter... Harry... this was the boy who... He looked up at Harry, who was standing in the middle of the room, giving off a distinct aura of anxiety and nerves. It was as though he expected to be shouted at. His eyes were red and puffy, as though he'd been crying, or not sleeping, or both. "So you're the one everything happens to, eh?" Luke said, watching Harry's face. 

Harry looked extremely startled by this. He blinked a couple of times, almost as though fending off tears, and nodded curtly. "Yes, sir." 

"Oh, don't call me sir. It makes me feel old. Call me Luke." 

Harry was clearly confused. "But you're a professor, don't you want --?" 

"Don't bother. It's an American thing. If I'm not going to call you 'Mr. Potter,' which I'm not, then there's no need for you to call me 'sir' or 'professor.'" Luke gave Harry an encouraging smile, which Harry returned only with his lips; his eyes stayed solemn. "Now, if you can tell me what musical experience you have?" 

"None, sir -- I mean, Luke." Harry seemed very uncomfortable, but he went on to answer Luke's questions. "My aunt and uncle wouldn't have paid for music lessons, and my previous school didn't offer anything." 

"That's all right. If you can come to the keyboard and sing back to me what I play?" Luke settled himself at the bench and picked out a two-bar little phrase, all stepwise motion. 

Harry blinked again, then opened his mouth and sang it back. Note-perfect, same tempo, with absolutely no uncertainty. 

Luke smiled. "That's very good. Let's try something longer." 

He added another two bars on. Again, Harry sang it back perfectly. "That's quite impressive," Luke said encouragingly. And added two more bars. Then two more. And two more. At a sixteen-bar melody, Luke was very excited, though a little unnerved. How much could this boy remember? He finally stopped and looked at Harry. 

"You have no musical training." 

"No." 

"But you can sing back to me a sixteen-bar melody, note perfect." 

"Only you did keep playing the beginning over and over, so it was easy to remember." 

This was true. "All right, I'll play a longer melody that you've never heard before -- this time with leaps." 

Thinking quickly, Luke decided to stick with something _he_ knew, and played the opening bars of a Bach fugue. He had to leave out the entrance of the second voice, of course, but the counter-subject was just as melodic as the subject, so it worked adequately. 

Harry, who had closed his eyes to listen, stood still for a minute. Luke was about to ask him if he wanted to hear it again, when Harry took a deep breath and began to sing it back. Not only was it note- and rhythm-perfect, but it was accompanied by an echo in the air of the second voice at its proper entrance. 

Harry's eyes stayed closed as he finished singing, and the other voice faded away, but not before it had sung a few more notes of the second voice, beyond the measures Luke had played. 

Luke sat rooted to his bench. That was simply -- well, simply _magical._

"That was unusual," he finally said. "I'll have a lot to talk to Albus about." _Understatement of the year,_ he thought. _Between this kid and Hermione..._

"Don't you know what that is?" Harry asked Luke curiously. 

"No, I've never heard that before." Luke was picking up a pen to jot down a note -- he doubted he'd forget, but he wanted to write down as many details now as he could. 

There was a moment of silence, then Harry said, almost in an accusatory voice, "That's a ballpoint pen." 

"Yes," said Luke, looking up. "Why?" 

Harry's expression went from surprised to shocked very quickly. "Wizards don't use ballpoint pens. You're a Muggle, aren't you." It wasn't a question. 

Luke nodded, waving his hands as though to quell something. "But don't spread it around, please -- Albus wants it to filter quietly." 

"All right." 

"We'd better get on with the exam," he said. "Can you read music, Harry?" 

"Er -- no, not at all." 

"I think that's everything, then. You may go. And send in the next person, please?" 

Ginny walked nervously into Professor Navarra's office. She felt that her entire future hung on this one interview -- and perhaps it did. If he could help her find voice lessons... She did wish her heart would stop thumping. 

"Ginny Weasley?" said a voice. "Please come in." 

Luke Navarra looked tired and bored, Ginny decided. He was rather good-looking, though, and Ginny couldn't blame Parvati for flirting with him. She had to admit that the American accent was a little strange, but when you're kissing, who wants to speak? She felt a telltale flush spread across her cheeks. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Please, call me Luke," he said. "And before you say, 'But you're a professor,' I'll tell you that, in America, it's common for teachers to ask their more mature students to call them by their first names -- especially in music. Now, let's see... How much musical experience do you have?" 

Ginny told him about Mrs. Gamut and about the singing lessons, and Luke looked suddenly happy. "So you can read music?" he asked excitedly. 

"Of course," she said. 

He smiled. "That's excellent. First, though, I'll take you through the sing-back part. If you can come to stand by the keyboard, please?" 

Ginny walked over to the instrument. "Oh, that's a gorgeous harpsichord!" she exclaimed. About eight feet long and four feet wide, it was made of solid wood, with a simple base of gently curving legs. "Mrs. Gamut only had a piano -- well, she was a Muggle, they're not much into harpsichords, are they? -- but I did once go to a recital when I was nine or ten and I saw one. I really like its sound; even though it's a little odd at first." She was babbling, but Luke was smiling at her. 

"Yes, they're great instruments," he said. "Now, can you sing back to me what I play, please?" 

It was a very easy little tune, and Ginny sang it back. "Very nice," he said. "Can you harmonize with me as I sing, then?" 

"All right," she said. 

They sang together for a few minutes, and then Luke had her come to the keyboard and sight-read a short piece. 

"That was really good," said Luke when they were finished. "I think that's everything I need. Thank you." 

Ginny stood there for a minute, thinking fast. Why not go for it? "There's one more thing," she said. 

"Yes?" 

"You see, I really want to learn how to sing better, and -- and, well, do you know of any voice teachers in Hogsmeade?" She watched Luke anxiously. 

He looked blank for a minute. "Teachers in Hogsmeade?" he repeated. "Not off the top of my head, no, I'm sorry. But I can look into it for you. You do sing beautifully." 

Ginny felt another blush spreading across her cheeks. "Thanks, sir -- I mean, Luke." It wasn't so hard, she realized. He was young, he was good-looking... all right, he was pretty darned cute, Parvati was right... and he wasn't really like Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick. He seemed a lot less stern than them. 

"You're welcome," Luke said, smiling. "Can you send in the next student?" 

Ginny went back out into the corridor, where Ron was waiting for her. 

"How'd it go?" he asked her. 

"He's going to ask about singing lessons in Hogsmeade!" she said, grinning. 

Ron grinned at her. "Brilliant." 

"How did the placement exams go?" Albus said to Luke, silently offering him the dish of hard candy. 

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," said Luke, irritably waving the dish away. "Some strange things happened with a few students." 

_I'll bet they did,_ thought Albus. "Oh?" he asked. "With whom?" 

"Hermione Granger and Harry Potter," said Luke. He outlined the events of the afternoon. None of it was particularly unexpected, though Albus expected Miss Granger was most frustrated by her inability to succeed in music as easily as she did other subjects. When Luke told of the voice accompanying Harry, though, Albus was a little surprised. He had heard of the Bach effect, naturally, though he'd never witnessed it firsthand. 

"What do you mean, 'the Bach Effect?'" asked Luke when Albus used the term. "Bach wasn't a wizard... was he?" 

"Yes, he was," said Albus. He explained. 

Johann Sebastian Bach was born at a time when the Wizarding World was just beginning to separate itself from the Muggle world, and was one of the last wizarding composers to work in the Muggle world. "He wasn't a particularly powerful wizard," Albus explained to the gaping young man in front of him, "but he had a talent for music and was an extreme perfectionist." 

In a way, Sebastian was lucky he worked with Muggles, who were too imperceptive to be affected by his peculiar brand of magic; and if they were, well, they simply chalked it up to a holy experience brought on by Kapellmeister Bach's strange religious music. 

"After Bach, most wizards were so busy hiding their identities to explore music, and Bach's example -- discover, if you will -- was simply forgotten." 

"But what exactly was his discovery?" asked Luke, exasperated. 

"Simply put, Bach managed to entwine his music with strands of nature. He chose fugal subjects and chordal progressions that resonated the same way particles of dust distribute themselves in the air, the same way the petals on a rose grow or the seeds of the dandelion scatter to the wind. And this alignment with nature," Albus continued, cutting off Luke's sputter, "can cause peculiar happenings around places particularly thick in naturally occurring magic, like Hogwarts, or when an exceptionally strong wizard, like Harry, is focusing on it." 

Albus watched Luke ponder, his eyes absently sweeping the room. Luke's gaze landed on Fawkes, who was in splendid color, and as though the young man was trying to talk about something closer to his normal range of experiences, asked, "What sort of bird is that? It's gorgeous." 

"This is Fawkes; he's a phoenix." 

"Really?" breathed Luke. "And does it --" 

"He." 

"Yes, and does he really burst into flame?" 

Albus nodded. "When it is time, he burns and is reborn from the ashes. Phoenixes can also carry extremely heavy loads; their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets." Albus immediately recalled how well Harry had taken advantage of Fawkes' many abilities over the years. 

Fawkes, hearing Albus talk about him, fluttered over to perch on the desk in front of Luke. His claws scrabbled on the polished wood surface as he clattered over to inspect the newcomer. 

"Fawkes, this is Luke Navarra," Albus said. "He's our new music professor." 

Fawkes tilted his head sideways, eyeing Luke beadily. 

"Do I... stroke him?" asked Luke tentatively. 

"If you like," Albus replied. 

Luke stretched out a nervous hand and stroked Fawkes' back. The phoenix, leaning into the caress, let out a trill of contentment. Luke froze as Fawkes' pleasant trill burbled into a real note. 

The room was subtly brighter, the cheery glow of the candles friendlier. The tinkling silver instruments in the background now added not just noise, but a comfroting jangle; and the anxiety pressing down on Luke's chest -- fears of inadequacy, of failure, of being hexed by the students -- suddenly weighed a lot less. 

"Phoenix song lends courage to the true of heart," Albus was saying. "I believe Fawkes has assisted Harry more than once in such a capacity." 

A faint crinkling noise announced that Albus had unwrapped another candy. 

Luke felt a smile suffuse his face as he continued to run his hand along the phoenix's brilliant plumage. "He's amazing," he whispered. 

He stroked the bird for a while longer as Albus crunched away at the candy. Then Luke recalled Hermione Granger. 

"About Hermione," he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from Fawkes. He explained the incident to Albus. 

"Oh, yes, I'm not surprised at all at that," Albus replied, when Luke had finished. 

"Oh?" Luke said, blinking. 

"She's an extremely powerful witch, as well as a singularly determined young lady. When someone with her power puts all that focus into aligning pitches, especially if she's been inaccurrate for a while, there's bound to be a spectacular release of the built-up energy around her. By missing the pitches, she sent the surrounding matter into confusion; when she finally matched them, the power that she put into that task must have been more than enough for the actual pitch, so the excess was released in another form." 

Luke nodded as though this information had not completely turned his world inside out, and stroked Fawkes once more before taking his leave. 

Hermione was a singularly determined young lady who was also singularly frustrated. The library was closed for the evening, and she hadn't found out yet what that ... reaction, for lack of a better word, was all about. It had felt so incredible, so _right_ when she'd finally hit the note, and when the world had suddenly glowed, she'd known that it was more than just satisfaction at accomplishment, it was magic. 

Parvati, Lavender, Erica, and Gwendolyn were sitting on Lavender's bed, telling giggling stories to each other about their summers, their boys, their parents, and their siblings. Hermione didn't really mind, nor did she feel left out; it had been ages since she'd felt a need to do the girly thing. She did often wish, however, that there were girls her own age with whom she could discuss schoolwork without feeling like -- or actually being -- a tutor. Ginny was nice, and intelligent, but she was a year younger and a class behind Hermione. And it wasn't just discussing schoolwork; Hermione did want to talk about boys, two boys in particular, but not in kissing terms. 

Oh, it was useless. Hermione threw down her quill in disgust. The parchment upon which she'd been scribbling was covered with circular speculations about the Experience, as she was beginning to call it, but none of her ideas could actually go anywhere until she had done some basic research. And she didn't want to wait. 

She got out of bed, shoved her feet into her slippers, and was at the door before her roommates noticed her. 

"What _are_ you doing, Hermione?" asked Lavender. 

"She's sneaking off," giggled Gwendolyn. 

"Ooh, tell us, tell us," squealed Parvati. 

"Where were you planning on going this late?" asked Erica slyly. 

"Out." And Hermione closed the door on their open mouths. She padded down the stairs to the common room, then resolutely padded up the stairs to the sixth year boys' dormitory and knocked. Dean opened the door. 

"Hi, Hermione," he said, grinning. 

"Hello, Dean," said Hermione, smiling back. There was an awkward moment of silence. "Er, can I come in?" she asked, looking pointedly into the room beyond. 

Dean stepped back from the door and extravagantly gestured her inside, bowing. The other boys looked up and gave their hellos, with little more than a few curious glances. Her presence, after all, wasn't that surprising, as she was Harry and Ron's good friend. 

"Have a moment, Harry?" she asked as she approached his bed. 

Two minutes of whispered conversation and a lengthy rummage in Harry's trunk for a book Hermione had "lent" him, and she was back down the spiral staircase, a silvery bundle in one hand and an old parchment clutched in the other. She pushed open the Fat Lady. 

"Already?" grumbled the sleepy portrait. "Is it just one of you, or all three?" Hermione didn't answer, as she was halfway down the corridor. 

Hermione kept a close eye on the Marauders' Map as she crept towards the library. Filch was patrolling the seventh floor near the Room of Requirement; Mrs. Norris was lurking in the astronomy tower, about to surprise two students whose names she didn't recognize. Dumbledore was pacing his study, and Snape wasn't anywhere to be found. 

She briefly wondered where he was, then decided she probably didn't want to know. As long as he wasn't breathing down her neck, she had no real interest in his whereabouts or activities. 

She pushed open the door to the library and made her way, past Madam Pince's throne and the study carrels, over to the shelves. Where to begin? She only knew a little bit about music from her grandmother, and from the WWN. She could dredge up nothing in her memory about matching pitches and glowing witches. But she had to start somewhere, and so she went to that old faithful, _Hogwarts: A History,_ her own copy having been left at home because there was no room in her trunk -- again. 

Three hours later, Hermione sat back and rubbed her neck muscles, stunned. It had taken some serious index and bibliography scouting to find a starting point, but once she knew the kind of references she was looking for, information had begun finding her. 

The history of musical energy was documented in England back to the seventh century, when a witch with perfect pitch had discovered that her sheep only came in when she whistled exactly the same sequences of notes. Transposed to any other pitch, the tweedle did nothing and the sheep just sat in the meadow. But the right pitches made them line up to follow her. 

There was, of course, the story of the Pied Piper. True, though greatly exaggerated, as all these tales were. He hadn't quite gotten all of the rats in the city, just most of them, and was helped along by someone's pet Kneazle bringing up the rear. 

The Hogwarts library was annoyingly Anglo-central, so the references she was able to find to an ancient Finnish wizard, Väinämöinen, were tantalizingly short. He had managed to vanquish enemies by singing and causing things to happen to them, though as the library did not contain a copy of the Kalevala, the nineteenth century Muggle collection of Finnish folktales, she was at loose ends. Perhaps he had existed, perhaps he hadn't. If he was real, then he had existed sometime around the founding of Hogwarts, and as magical history was quite spotty from that time, she didn't know if she would ever find out the truth. 

But there was more information later on: around the Renaissance, in the fifteenth century, a few wizards tried working in the Muggle world as musicians, finding employment mostly in churches as resident composers. There were snobbish reports of Muggles constantly mistaking what the wizards called "alignment" for religious ecstasy. Giovanni da Palestrina, though not a wizard, was an extremely perceptive Muggle, and was able to use alignment in his settings of the Mass Ordinary without fully understanding his actions. 

And then came Bach in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. The last great wizarding composer, and a genius. And his works were so well crafted that they'd left an indelible mark on nature itself, which would explain Harry's strange experience at his exam. Incredible. 

But something nagged at her, eating away at her joy of research: what was the purpose of all this, then? It was fascinating and certainly enjoyable to read about, but what was the point? Hermione was a fan of education in general, but so far her career at Hogwarts had included mostly useful stuff -- apart from Trelawney, who she'd dropped faster than a dirty rag. Hermione simply couldn't see the use of this albeit interesting effect. 

_The night was dark and silent. The figures were hooded and cloaked, and stood in a circle with two in the middle. One was kneeling before the other, kissing the hem of his robes. _

"You may stand," said the leader. 

The man stood. 

"Tell me what you know." 

"The old man has hired a Muggle, my Lord," said the servant. "He will be teaching the children music. I do not know why he has done this -- perhaps to give the children some distractions while their world crumbles around them." 

"Indeed. And?" 

"The Muggle cannot even find his way around the castle. He is helpless in the magical world." 

"Does he have... family?" 

"There is a woman." 

"Indeed." 

"She lives in America." 

"Find her. A Muggle has no place at Hogwarts. He must be persuaded back to his proper place. You may kill her if necessary." 

"Yes, my Lord." 

Harry awoke suddenly, his scar prickling, and tried to remember the dream. There had been darkness, and many cloaked figures; two familiar voices -- one silky and smooth, one high and cold. Snape, and Voldemort. Talking about the school... and a Muggle. And his family. 

Harry shook his head and got up to pour himself some water. What did it mean? Voices, darkness. Obviously a Death Eater meeting... 

But was it real? Or was Voldemort now sending him false images, hoping to lure him again to somewhere he could be killed? And what would Snape think when he saw that dream the next time Harry went for Occlumency? 

Harry wanted to punch something. It really wasn't fair. Why did he have to continue those lessons when it was obvious they weren't helping? Snape seemed about as eager as Harry to continue them. 

_"As the Headmaster wishes it, Potter, you shall be continuing Occlumency this term with me. I believe anyone who knows your O.W.L. score will not be surprised to learn that you need more Remedial Potions."_

Harry supposed it did make an excellent excuse. He'd only gotten an E in Potions, rather than the required O, but as McGonagall and Dumbledore were both adamant that Harry be taught Potions, Snape had to acquiesce to their wishes. 

In any case, Hermione had told him that Snape "really couldn't keep you out of the class if you wanted to take it, because I've read all about those guidelines, and you only need an A to continue an N.E.W.T subject, so if you want to take it, he can't stop you, especially if your Head of House and the Headmaster both give permission. It's in the _N.E.W.T. Educational Standards of 1994_." To which Ron had rolled his eyes and Harry had simply nodded. Sometimes Hermione _did_ read too much. 

Harry's schedule was quite full this term, especially with N.E.W.T. subjects being as time-consuming as they were. He had Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, and Music. He hadn't wanted to give up Care of Magical Creatures, but it was being offered only at the same time as Potions, and he really needed Potions to train as an Auror. 

Ron, though quite disappointed at having his hopes for being an Auror dashed, had nevertheless been happy to give up weekly horror with Snape and continue in Care of Magical Creatures. Hermione, true to form, hadn't wanted to give up a single class. Unfortunately -- or was it fortunately? Harry didn't know -- the Ministry wasn't too keen on giving her a time turner, so she had had to make some decisions. She'd finally settled on her choices only after researching thoroughly and then telling them in detail the requirements of each class and the potentials for careers in Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Astronomy, and Arithmancy. She'd had to drop Runes and Care of Magical Creatures as well, and was thoroughly put out by it. 

Ron, however, was looking forward to Snape-free years, as he was signed up for Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Care of Magical Creatures, and Music. Both Harry and Ron were thrilled to give up Divination. 

There was still that question: why on earth was Dumbledore making them all take Music? Harry knew there was magic in it -- no doubt about that, especially from what had happened earlier that day. But what sort of magic was it? He remembered Dumbledore saying, his very first year at Hogwarts, that music was "a magic beyond all we do here." Was he going to learn something about that? But why now? Why, just when Voldemort was beginning his second offence on the Wizarding World, was Dumbledore taking up precious time to teach them something new? 

And why was there a Muggle teaching it? 

Which brought Harry's thoughts back to the dream. He drained his water glass, set it down next to the pitcher, and climbed back into bed, gazing out of the window across the room. If it had been a real dream -- and he would bet his Firebolt that it had been real -- then the Death Eaters now knew about Navarra, thanks to Snape. The greasy git! Why hadn't he simply kept quiet? 

A very reasonable, Hermione-sounding voice at the back of his head said that Snape had to walk a fine line as Dumbledore's spy, and would sometimes have to tell Voldemort information that he didn't really want to. Of course that made sense, but it still didn't seem right to Harry that Snape would give up Luke's girlfriend so easily. 

A yawn escaped him. It was strange, really, he mused. Normally a dream like that would have had him lying awake the rest of the night, wondering about it and its consequences. But he still felt calm and -- well, not exactly _glowing,_ but definitely content from the incident at his placement test. He really needed to find out what that was all about. It had certainly felt good: as though the world was aligning to support him, and as if he hadn't been singing alone. Or doing anything alone, for that matter. 

He'd ask Hermione more in the morning. Hopefully she would have found something in the libr... 

Harry's eyes drooped closed, and he slept soundly for the first time in weeks. 

"Master Luke, Master Luke, please wake up. Please, master Luke, you is ought to be at breakfast. Winky isn't wanting to wake you, as you is so tired from last night, but you must go. 'Tis eight o'clock already, master Luke." 

Luke sat bolt upright, his foggy brain fighting the remaining tentacles of sleep. "What?" he said blearily. 

"'Tis eight o'clock, master Luke," Winky whimpered. "You is ought to be eating breakfast -- you is teaching in an hour." 

"Shhhh... it," Luke hissed, and rolled out of bed. He shaved hastily, brushed his teeth, and gathered up all the papers from last night. These papers were the cause of his current sleep-deprived state, as he'd been up until at least two trying to cudgel together a schedule from the mishmash of exam results and class lists. Finally, after three cups of coffee, he'd squeezed everyone into the appropriate slot, and sent Winky off to Albus with the groupings. Presumably Albus would work some sort of magic to schedule all these groups with the rest of the classes, and presumably Luke would have at least a few minutes to prepare for whatever class he had first this morning, as he did not yet know. 

The corridors blissfully cooperated with Luke as he hurtled towards the Great Hall, his shoes pounding and the still unfamiliar robes billowing out behind him. He had had just enough presence of mind to remember the staff entrance on the side, and then he was inside the Great Hall and trying not to run to his spot at the Head Table. 

"There you are," said McGonnagall testily. She handed Luke a scroll of parchment. "Your timetable," she informed him loftily. "I'm very glad I'm not in your shoes," she added in an undertone, which he wasn't sure he was meant to hear. 

Luke glanced down at the parchment in apprehension. What a schedule! The only free blank spots were the weekends -- and those had blocks marked in for "private lessons as needed" -- and a few hours before breakfast! Even his time after dinner several times a week was claimed. Maybe he'd be able to find an assistant. 

He bolted his breakfast and hurtled across the Entrance Hall to the hallway where his classroom was: room ten. Next door, room eight, was the school's instrument storage room, containing a number of harpsichords, clavichords, lutes, guitars, a box of recorders and wooden flutes, tenor, treble and bass viols, five violins, two violas, three cellos, a set of bagpipes, two natural horns, an assortment of oboes, and several drums. 

Albus had offered to replace any of the instruments, apologizing for their age: the last music teacher had retired in 1725 when she'd been offered a job in the burgeoning English music publishing industry. "They've been under a Preservation Charm, of course," Albus had gone on, "but they're still almost three hundred years old. This room hasn't been opened since she left, I'm sorry to say." 

Luke laughed aloud, now, at that -- he'd explained patiently to Albus that the older the instrument, usually the better, and upon inspecting the instruments, had pronounced them mostly in good condition. The instruments all needed tuning, but that would only take a few hours -- unless the strings broke, in which case they'd need to be replaced, a small matter. But the Preservation Charm should have kept them from getting brittle. 

Luke now picked up one of the cellos lying on a padded rack in the corner. The charm had done its work well, he thought, looking at the unblemished wood. Almost three hundred years of neglect hadn't dried or warped the wood. Wondering how old it actually was, he tilted the instrument to let some light into the box, and peered through the soundhole for a label. 

_Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1716_

He nearly dropped the instrument. Of course, it could be a fake -- there were so many. But it was far too coincidental. A label from 1716, a room locked from 1725? Luke glanced inside each of the other instruments; all were Stradivari instruments, with dates between 1716 and 1720. He reverently placed the viola he was holding back in its stiffened leather case. If these instrument were originals, he'd just made a major find. 

But the instruments would have to wait. He had less than fifteen minutes until the students came, and he needed to prepare a double lecture. He went next door to sit at the desk and think. 

At nine o'clock he got up, unlocked the door to the classroom, and looked out to see students milling around in the hallway. Eighty children. He swallowed, nodded at them, and stepped back to allow them inside. 

They took their seats quietly, many curious looks coming his way. A few faces were openly resentful, a few bored, many tired. There was one set of angry eyes, and those belonged to Draco Malfoy, the pale blond boy from Slytherin house. Luke had heard from Minerva that Draco's father was involved in the Muggle-hating business -- what were they called again? Death Riders? Death Eaters? _Oh dear,_ Luke thought, seeing the hatred boiling. _Well, you can't make everyone like you._ He nodded to the class, cleared his throat, and began to speak. 

The only thing Albus had told him about course material was not to worry about who was a wizard and who wasn't. Most of the time, especially in the middle ages, no one knew, and the students would probably assume they had all been wizards. 

"Welcome to History of Music," he said. "I'm trying to learn all of your names, so please bear with me." He smiled weakly. 

No one smiled back. 

There went that. Oh, dear. "I could, of course, just lecture," he offered, "as I've heard tell happened last year with Miss Dolores Jane Umbridge." 

A few people looked up at the name; one or two made sounds of disgust. 

"But I imagine you'd be very bored by that. So, instead, I'd like to have a few volunteers tell me something they already know about music history -- a composer, a musician, important theories -- anything, really." 

Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes. "This is stupid," he whispered loudly to Vincent Crabbe. 

"And why might this be stupid, Draco?" Luke asked loudly. Malfoy started. He clearly hadn't expected Luke to actually respond to his comment. Most teachers probably ignored him as best they could, or intimidated him so that he didn't even dare to speak out of turn. "Please, do enlighten me." 

Draco glared at him, and they locked eyes for a brief eternity. The class was extremely silent. He was suddenly aware of the lack of a classroom clock ticking away. Luke finally cocked an eyebrow at Draco. It might not be easy, but it very well might be fun, he thought, as Malfoy looked away, grumbling. 

"Very well, then," Luke said, trying not to smile too widely, though inside he was grinning. "Would anyone besides Draco like to volunteer a piece of information?" 

Harry was amazed. Luke had challenged Malfoy, and apparently won. And more importantly, the teacher had asked for a volunteer to talk, and Hermione's hand was still in her lap. 

"Aren't you going to raise your hand?" Ron hissed from behind Hermione. She shook her head, her mouth shut. "I never thought I'd see the day when you didn't jump to your feet when the teacher asked a question. I wish Colin were here, he could take a picture -" 

"Would you like to volunteer something, Ron?" Luke said suddenly. 

Harry heard Ron groan, and suppressed a grin. 

"Um," said Ron, obviously thinking fast. "Er, didn't most musicians used to be wizards?" he asked. 

Luke nodded. "Go on," he said encouragingly. 

"I just know that after the Statute of Secrecy, music became a sort of Muggle thing," Ron said. 

"Exactly," said Luke. "We'll learn more about that later, but it's very true that, until the Statute of Secrecy, the lack of separation between Muggles and wizards meant that more wizards took up music as an occupation. Anyone else?" 

Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff raised her hand slowly. Luke smiled at her to speak. "We learned in my village school that there are four periods of music history," she said. "Medieval, Renaissance, Baroque, and Classical," she recited. 

"Excellent," said Luke. He turned to the chalkboard and began to write the periods across the top of the board. "There are two other so-called 'periods' of music," Luke said. "Anyone? Hermione?" 

Hermione's hand was finally up. "Romantic and Modern," she said promptly. Luke added them to the top of the board. 

Harry noticed whispers breaking out in small clumps across the classroom. He knew exactly what was causing them: every other teacher used a wand to write on the chalkboard -- it was much faster and cleaner. The rumors would be all over the school by lunchtime that Luke Navarra was a Muggle, or a Squib. Thinking of what Malfoy would do to Luke, who already had the problem of being sorted into Gryffindor, and thus an automatic enemy of Slytherin, if Malfoy learned the truth, Harry suddenly understood why Argus Filch was so unpleasant to them. It wasn't jealousy at all -- it was to keep them too scared to hex him! 

Luke was currently trying to get the students to give him names of composers and pieces that fit each era. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were contributing the most to the discussion, the Gryffindors less, and the Slytherins weren't even talking at all -- not even amongst themselves. 

Harry saw that Malfoy had fixed a glare on Luke, glancing meaningfully over at Crabbe and Goyle on occassion. They, for one, weren't cracking their knuckles. Goyle looked puzzled -- nothing new -- and Crabbe looked... he looked _thoughtful_. His eyebrows were furrowed so that they made an unbroked line of thick hair across his forehead; his chin rested on his hands, and his eyes actually had something going on behind them as Crabbe studied -- yes, _studied_ -- Luke. 

Something small and papery flew past Harry's ears and landed on his desk. It was a paper crane. Harry unfolded it, glancing up to make sure Luke wasn't looking. He was engrossed in conversation with Parvati and Lavender, so it was safe. 

_Barnabas the Barmy?_ the note read. It was signed "T.B." Barnabas the Barmy? What did that mean? Harry knew who that was; it was that character on the tapestry on the seventh floor, across from the Room of Requi... of course. Dumbledore's Army. Who was T.B.? Tuberculosis? Tom Brown? Terry Boot. Right. Now that Harry had the message figured out, and Luke was still occupied, this time talking to Hannah, who was sitting next to Lavender and Parvati in the front row, he had to answer it. 

"What's that?" hissed Hermione. 

Harry passed it over to her, still thinking. Were they going to resume? It had been such a good idea, and they'd been so successful. If Luna, Neville, and Ginny hadn't learned how to defend themselves last year, they'd never have survived the Department of Mysteries. And Neville wouldn't have passed his O.W.L. Hermione passed the note back to Harry, raising her eyebrows. He shrugged. 

But Tonks would be teaching, now, and she was a competent Auror. So, what was going to happen? The honest answer was maybe, that it depended on Tonks' plans. Harry thought for a second, and scribbled a reply: _Maybe. Pink hair._ Terry was a Ravenclaw; he could figure it out. 

Harry glanced up again to make sure Luke was still occupied, then surreptitiously pulled his wand out of his bookbag and prodded the paper. It crumpled. It was supposed to turn back into a paper crane. He smoothed out the paper, one eye on Luke, and poked it again hopefully. It flopped weakly, refusing to fold properly. 

Hermione snorted softly, then reached over with her own wand and tapped the paper. Harry watched as the note neatly folded itself back into a crane and zipped back three rows to where Terry was sitting. He opened the note, frowned, then gave a satisfied nod. 

Hermione poked him. "Harry!" she hissed. "He's asking you a question." 

"Wha -- what?" Harry asked Luke. "Sorry, what did you say?" 

"Honestly," Hermione muttered. Malfoy snickered. 

"What piece would you like to add to our list?" 

"List? So- sorry, I wasn't paying attention." 

"That's obvious," said Luke, though not as if he were really upset. "We're compiling a list of composers to study, and I'm asking each student to contribute a piece or a name." 

"Oh. Er-" Harry didn't know much music. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never took him out to concerts, and the music Dudley played on his stereo wasn't very tuneful, and Harry was sure it didn't count as classical. "I don't think I know anything," he confessed. 

"Sure you do," said Luke. "Hum something, anything." 

There was that one thing, from that space movie, with the classical piece in the background as a space station came closer -- the weird movie, 2001. "Er... La-la-la-la-la --- la-la --- la-la," he sang. 

"The Blue Danube," Luke said. "Sorry, already got that one. Anything else?" 

Goodness, this was difficult. "I'm sorry, I really don't know anything," he apologized. 

Malfoy sniggered. "Potty doesn't know anything," he whispered loudly to Pansy Parkinson, who giggled vapidly. 

"Draco, Pansy, do either of you know a piece you'd like to add to the list?" Luke said mildly. 

This man was like Remus, Harry thought. The same calmness, the same patience and courtesy. He was also able to keep Malfoy and the Slytherins off his back. 

"Palestrina," Malfoy said challengingly. "He wrote loads of stuff and he's not up there yet." 

"Indeed he did," said Luke, "What period does he belong in?" 

Malfoy was silent. He didn't know? He didn't know! Harry could sing. 

Malfoy mumbled something. 

"What was that?" said Luke. "Sorry, didn't catch that." 

Malfoy's face worked furiously. "I said I don't know," he growled. 

"That's quite all right," Luke said cheerfully. "I expect there's a lot you don't know." Unless Harry was hallucinating, Luke's mouth was working very hard not to crack into a smile. "For your information," he continued, now addressing the whole class, "Palestrina lived from around 1525 to 1595, and is usually classified as part of the Renaissance." Luke turned to the blackboard and wrote "Palestrina" under the column "Renaissance." 

Now that Harry actually looked at the chalkboard, he could see that there were a handful of titles and composers under each period heading, clustered in the first four periods. He suddenly remembered something, he raised his hand. 

Hermione stared at him. 

"Yes, Harry?" Luke asked. 

"What about Beethoven?" he said. He'd heard the name once or twice on the wireless during cleaning sessions with Aunt Petunia, but couldn't remember much more, beyond a vague impression. 

"Yep," said Luke, very American for a moment. "He's very important. Do you know when he lived?" he asked, his hand poised over the chalkboard. 

Harry had a guess. "The eighteen-hudnreds?" 

"Seventeen-seventy to eighteen-twenty-seven," Luke said. He wrote, "L. v. Beethoven" so that it overlapped the two columns "Classical" and "Romantic." "Beethoven's a very important composer in music history, because it was his work with musical forms and with the role of the composer that changed the way musicians thought about history. Thank you very much for bringing him up, Harry, since we'll be spending at least one lecture on him." 

The bell sounded, and there was a scramble to pack bags and books. 

Over the din, Luke said, "Wait just a minute! I haven't dismissed you yet! Please, sit back down." 

There was a grumble, but everyone sat. 

"First, thank you to everyone who participated -- you've earned 3 points each; I've kept track of your names. Those of you who didn't participate -- and I know who you are," his gaze rested near the Slytherins, "have lost a point each." 

There was a gasp of outrage. 

"It's not much, don't complain," Luke said over the noise. "It's just that this class is going to be very boring if I'm the only one who talks all the time. I want to encourage you all to participate, and to bring questions to class. For homework, I want that exact thing: a list of ten questions -- and none of this 'yes/no' or 'when did so-and-so live' stuff. Five questions about music history in general. Feel free to come to me for ideas. Any questions? Then you can go. Enjoy your lunch." 

Harry bundled up his supplies and followed Ron and Hermione out of the classroom. He was about to ask them what they'd thought of the lesson, but he saw Malfoy entertaining a group of Slytherins and had a bad feeling. "Wait," he said, grabbing Ron's and Hermione's robes. "Malfoy." 

"What about him?" said Ron dismissively. 

"I've just got a bad feeling," Harry muttered. "If he knows about Luke..." 

"Knows what about Luke?" 

"Honestly, Ron, even you should have noticed." 

"Noticed what? What are you two keeping from me?" 

"_We're_ not keeping anything from you, _Luke_ is." 

Harry let them bicker as they trailed down the corridor to a point where Malfoy was audible. Then he shushed them, and Hermione bent down as though adjusting her bookbag, so that they didn't look suspicious. 

"He doesn't deserve to be here," Malfoy was saying to Crabbe and Goyle. "He's not our kind." 

"But he's real nice," said Crabbe slowly. Harry shook his head in disbelief. Malfoy and Crabbe arguing? 

"Crabbe, you dimwit. Of cousre he's _nice_," Malfoy sneered. "He's an American. They're all nice." He put on a horrible fake accent. "Howdy there! What can I do fer you? Have a nice day!" He switched back. "He's got no place here. Father always said Dumbledore was the worst thing that ever happened to this school, and I agree. Navarra goes." 

Harry felt a jolt of fear. His dream last night -- and now this -- 

"But what are we going to do about it?" asked Goyle, as though this was his normal line. Crabbe stayed silent. 

"Oh, not much," Malfoy said maliciously. "I've got a few ideas. Father sent me a letter this morning telling me to go ahead, too." He laughed, a horrible, soft sound that held no trace of real humor. 

"Oh, dear," said Hermione as they quietly left. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all." 

"What do you mean? Malfoy's never been anything but rude to the teachers -- why should this be any different?" asked Ron. 

"Ron," said Hermione in her why-are-you-being-so-thick voice, "haven't you noticed unusal things about Luke?" 

"Like what?" 

"Using chalk, not his wand," said Harry. 

"So?" 

"Have you _ever_ seen him use a wand?" asked Hermione in a whisper. 

"No, but-" 

"Ron, use your brains! Your dad works all the time with Muggles!" she exclaimed. 

Ron's eyes widened. "You mean, he's a Mug-" he started to exclaim loudly. Hermione clapped her hand over his mouth. He pulled her arm away. "He's a Muggle?" he whispered. 

They nodded. "This could be bad," he said. 

"We know." 

The rest of Luke's day passed much more easily than the nerve-wracking first class. The younger students were certainly biddable enough, and he set them to music-reading exercises easily. There was still one big problem -- practice rooms. There was simply no way the school could accommodate three hundred students, all of whom would need a place to practice in the evenings, even if it wasn't every student, every evening. They'd need thirty or fourty rooms, all with keyboards. Clavichords were, of course, the ideal instrument, as they'd take up only a few feet either direction and create almost no noise. Several clavichords could even be in the same reasonable sized room without their players hearing each other. 

Luke briefly wondered about the possible existence and practicality of Soundproofing Spells on practice rooms. 

Some of the more advanced keyboard students, of which he hoped there would be several, would certainly want harpsichords, though, and the school only had four, two of which were single manual, rather than the more standard double, with the additional keyboard situated above the primary one. 

So his mental shopping list now included ten double-manual harpsichords in addition to the thirty-five clavichords he wanted. 

How was the school going to pay for all of this? He supposed they could just conjure money out of thin air, but part of him suspected that a strong code of ethics would prevent Albus from doing that. But the Headmaster had been so cheerful and confident -- "Anything you need, anything you want, just let me or Minerva know" -- but forty-five instruments? 

The clavichords would cost at least three thousand dollars each, with no frills, and though his own harpsichord had been thirty thousand, the results of a small inheritance and five years of savings, simple ones would be at least eight. That made -- Luke did some quick mental math -- eighty thousand dollars for the harpsichords and ninety thousand for the clavichords. A hundred and seventy thousand dollars on instruments? How much was that in pounds...no, Galleons? 

And where would they get them, he wondered? If so much of the magical community was isolated from Muggle products, how could they obtain quality instruments without arousing suspicion? Did any wizards make instruments these days? Did they still make harpsichords? 

Considering the fact that several students seemed to have been raised with an exposure of Baroque music and no knowledge of anything past Bach, Luke wondered if perhaps the wizarding community had continued to make harpsichords and other baroque instruments while the Muggles moved over to the piano and the modern incarnations of other instruments. 

He imagined, fancifully, a family that had been making keyboards in the same manner since the sixteenth century, without any break in tradition, passing down knowledge and tools from father to son. 

That evening, Luke visited the library, getting his first real chance to explore the place. 

Irma Pince, whom he'd met at lunch the other day, regarded him condescendingly as he approached the desk. 

"'Scuse me," he began politely, "but I was hoping you could help me." 

"Oh?" she croaked, pursing her lips. 

"I was wondering -- is there a section on music?" 

She positively cackled. Quietly. Far be it for Irma to disturb the sacred silence of her dusty domain. "If you can find it, there will be," she replied, her eyes glinting. 

He opened his mouth, realized that anything he said would sound stupid, and closed it. "Thank you," he grumbled sarcastically. Irma hadn't been particularly polite to him at the meal, especially once she'd realized his Muggle origins. Yet another prejudiced person, he thought, not without rancor. He hoped they'd all realize soon that his lack of magic wasn't a barrier to his intelligence. 

There were shelves upon shelves of ancient books -- one fascinating volume entitled "Hogwarts: A Firste Historie," had a printing date on it of MCCXI, and was tattered but still in one piece. More Preservation Charms, he assumed, carefully returning the book to its place next to a glossy-covered "How to Tell if Your Dorm Mates Have Stolen Your Socks, And Other Survival Tips for Hogwarts Students." 

There weren't too many students, as it was only the first day of school. Many of those present were studying only leisurely, and some couples Luke encountered in his explorations were too carefully perusing the shelves to be convincing. One couple broke apart so quickly that they knocked several heavy encyclopedias off their shelves, and looked guiltily at Luke as though expecting a reprimand. He merely smiled knowingly and whistled tunelessly as he passed, carefully looking the other way. The couple -- fifth-years, by the look -- giggled. Luke kept going, running idle fingers down spines as he passed. 

"Evening, professor," said a voice. 

"Hi, Hermione," said Luke, recognizing the face behind the two-foot high pile of books. "Lots of homework?" 

"Oh, no, it's just a project," she said, balancing the stack on one knee and reaching up for another book. She was too short, though, and her fingers couldn't quite grasp it. He silently reached up and plucked it off the shelf for her. 

"Thanks," she said. 

"What's your project on?" he asked. 

"It's my Arithmancy term paper," she said. 

"Oh? When's it due?" he asked. He really wanted to ask, _What the hell is Arithmancy?_ but thought better of it. 

"December first," she replied, depositing the books on a nearby table that she'd obviously already staked claim to. It was completely covered with parchments, books, and strange charts of numbers and symbols that seemed fuzzy on the paper, as though the symbols weren't really sure they wanted to be there. 

"Starting early," he commented. 

"I like to stay on top of things." Her voice held a note of defensive challenge. 

"That's very good," he said. 

"You really think so?" she asked desperately. "Harry and Ron always tell me I'm just being 'Hermione,' but I think it's important to finish assignments early on so you don't have to worry about deadlines, or about something horrible happening out of nowhere. I mean, there's always the chance here of something happening, some emergency or other, or simply another big assignment. You never really know. And with a term paper, I always find that starting early gives me the chance to do more research." 

She was babbling, but Luke understood. "I completely agree," he said earnestly. 

Hermione smiled gratefully. A moment of strained silence descended. 

"Oh, I asked Albus about your placement exam," Luke said, remembering. 

"Really? What did he say?" she asked eagerly. "Do sit down, professor," she added, gesturing to a chair. 

"Thanks." He sat. "It wasn't that complicated, really. According to Albus, you're quite a powerful witch-" she blushed "-and when you focussed your magical energy into matching the pitch, it Resonated." He tried to embue the word with the capitalization Albus had seemed to give it. 

"That sounds right," she said, nodding eagerly, "I did some research of my own, and I thought that might have happened." 

"What books did you use?" Luke asked. "Where are they? I can't seem to find a section on music," he confessed. 

"They're rather scattered, but I've got a list," Hermione said, hauling her bookbag up to the table and rummaging inside. "Here." She pulled out a scroll of parchment neatly tied and labeled along one end, "Music -- Booklist," in minute capitals. 

Luke unrolled it to see about a dozen books listed. "Could you show me?" 

It was a huge section, completely deserted except for Luke now that Hermione had returned to her table. He scanned the shelves hungrily, thinking wistfully of Wendy's face when she saw these. She'd always been a nineteenth-century scholar, but the resources here for Medieval and Renaissance Studies were unparallelled in his knowledge. 

Was that -? Yes, it _was!_ A first printing of _L'Art du Toucher le Clavecin,_ Fran 


	7. Monday, Monday

**Chapter Seven -- Monday, Monday**

Monday was turning out to be an exceptionally fine day, perhaps one of the last for the year unless the Diablo winds started up again, bringing hot air in from the east. 

Wendy hopped onto the 51 line bus for the Berkeley Marina, deciding that she'd do a bit of walking, look at the boats, and eat her sandwich while watching any kite flyers. She also had in her bag that little book she needed to finish, Lydia Goehr's _The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works,_ about philosophy and ontology -- whatever that was, because Goehr hadn't explained it yet -- in regards to the changing musical aesthetics of the nineteenth century. Wendy suppressed a mental snore as she thought about the first chapter, "A Nominalist Theory of Musical Works," which had taken her four days to get through. Perhaps the next nine chapters would be easier going. 

The bus came to a bumpy stop and Wendy hopped off, calling a "Thanks!" to the driver, who grunted and closed the doors behind her. She set off towards the big parking lot where all the boats were kept, wondering if she'd see anything interesting. 

It happened just as she skirted a particularly big yacht. 

Two men in cloaks and masks stepped out from behind the boat and blocked her path. There was something very sinister about their stance and clothing; Wendy recalled stories of rapes that had happened at the Marina in the past and was filled with apprehension. 

Then she saw that they were carrying wands and _knew_ that she was scared. These were no rapists or muggers -- they were wizards, and they were threatening her. 

She opened her mouth and screamed, louder and higher than she ever knew she could. 

It was cut off though, as one of the men pointed his wand at her and said, _"Silencio."_

She was still screaming, and her throat felt raw, but nothing came out. She turned and ran, instead. Something caught her by the heels and she fell, hard, onto the pavement. 

_"Impedimenta!"_ said the same man, and it was as though a sheet had been wrapped tightly around her. 

She was face down on the ground, voiceless, immobile, with two armed wizards closing in on her. Were these those crazy Death Eaters Davitt had mentioned? If they were... what did they want with her? 

Wendy suddenly and abruptly was in fear for her life. These were the men who hated Muggles, who no doubt hated Luke for being at Hogwarts. It was a strange, detached feeling; she wasn't afraid of death so much as angry that she couldn't fight back with tooth and nail, or take one of them with her. If she could have spoken, she would have taunted them, told them that _her_ mother taught her only to pick on people her own size. 

She heard a pair of footsteps approach and braced herself for pain, for oblivion, for whatever was coming. The Death Eater knelt and turned her over. Black eyes were visible through the mask. 

"Don't worry, you'll get out of this alive," said Severus Snape's voice very quietly. "Davitt --" 

"Get out of the way, Snape," said the other Death Eater. His voice was smooth and silky, very British and arrogant. "I want to kill her and be done with it." 

"I'm sorry," Severus whispered to Wendy. Then he straightened up and turned to the other man. "I want her to suffer, Lucius," he said coldly. 

"Severus," sighed the man, and, even in his annoyance, could have been drinking tea and discussing the cricket match. 

"Beauty always looks so compelling when under stress," said Severus. 

"Severus, you're far too soft. Get out of the way." 

But before the other man could take over, Severus had pointed his want at Wendy's heart and said, _"Crucio!"_

It was pain beyond anything she'd ever experienced. Sparks shot through her body and her limbs were on fire. She wanted the pain to stop, to die and be at peace. Anything was better than this never-ending boiling heat consuming her. 

She would have been screaming, but there was no sound. It was surreal. She could hear children laughing in the distance. She could hear cars pulling into the parking lot across the empty lot. All while suffering this agonizing torture. It seemed to last for hours with no respite. After what felt like an eternity, the pain began to occupy all of her existence. There never had been anything but, there never would be anything except, the endless, merciless pain. 

There was a _pop!_ and someone shouted, _"Stupefy! Stupefy!"_

Two loud thuds of bodies hitting pavement were accompanied by the most wonderful feeling Wendy had ever experienced -- the cessation of pain. But she was still shaking, as though she'd just come out of a clothes dryer, like the morning after a migraine all over her body. She was nauseated and dizzy and still couldn't move. 

"Wendy! Wendy, are you all right?" It was Davitt. His face appeared in her line of sight. "Can you move?" When she evidently couldn't, he pointed a wand at her and said, _"Finite incantatem."_

Now she could move, though she really didn't want to. She rolled onto her side and curled up into a ball, aware that she was whimpering and crying. 

"Bollocks," Davitt said. It was the first time she'd heard him swear, and it sounded strange. "How long did he have the curse on you?" 

"Felt like ... an eternity," she croaked. Her brain, right, she had a thinking organ. It started to work. Slowly. The sun was warm on her face. "Maybe... five minutes?" 

"Good Lord, you're still conscious?" he said. "We need to get you to the hospital. I've never done this before, but it's our best bet... and Poppy knows better than anyone... " 

Davitt disappeared, but reappeared quickly holding a crumpled bottle that had once had some sort of soda in it, and set it on the pavement. "This will do. _Portus,_" he intoned. The bottle glowed briefly blue, and rattled a bit. "Can you touch this?" he said. "You need to reach for it, just a finger. We'll leave them to their own devices," he added, nodding at the two fallen Death Eaters. 

Wendy stretched out her arm, very much aware of every single muscle and nerve ending in it. It seemed to be a very long distance to the bottle, though it was really only a few inches. Finally, her finger touched it, and a moment later, a hook grabbed her from behind her navel, jerking her forward in a whirl of sound and color. 

The Hospital Wing was a cheerless place. Sterile beds with white linen and iron frames, a stone floor that had no character whatsoever. Even the paintings were of placid pasture scenes, with nary a wild witch or wizard, just calm sheep and pretty boys and girls tending them. 

Wendy lay on the bed, smiling weakly up at Luke. He knelt beside her, stroking her forehead. God, how he'd missed her. She was pale, barely darker than the sheets, her brown hair rumpled around her head like a halo. 

Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was bustling around the bed, fussing with bottles and goblets and muttering to herself; she kept trying to shoulder in past Luke, but he wouldn't budge. 

"I can't begin to thank you," Luke said, looking up at Davitt. 

"It was Severus who sent me the message," Davitt said. "I had to leave him there." 

"Severus?" exclaimed Luke. "What was he doing there?" 

Several people answered at once. 

"He's working for the Order," said Albus. 

"He was the primary attacker," said Davitt. 

"He kept me alive," whispered Wendy. 

It was too confusing. "Wait," he said desperately. "Is he a good guy or a bad guy?" It sounded stupid coming out of his mouth, but this whole thing seemed stupid. He had half a mind to just pack up and leave, go back to America. 

Again, everyone tried to speak, but Albus held up his hands for silence. "Professor Snape has been working with the Order of the Phoenix against Lord Voldemort for many years. He is a crucial part of our information web -- and I must remind you that this knowledge must go no further than these walls," he said solemnly. "It was Severus who informed me of the attack first, though Mr. Potter also experienced a vision." 

"Vision?" said Luke, looking at Harry, who was standing slightly in the shadows, as though trying not to be noticed. 

"Harry occasionally experiences visions or dreams of what Lord Voldemort is doing at that moment, particularly when Lord Voldemort is feeling a strong emotion," Albus explained, also looking at Harry, who didn't meet anyone's eyes. 

Luke shook his head. He looked down at Wendy, who had her eyes closed. "Why did it take so long for you to find her?" he asked Davitt, his voice cracking. He clutched Wendy's hand hard. 

"I had no idea where she was," Davitt said apologetically. "It took me several minutes to scan the entire Berkeley area for Unforgivables. If Severus hadn't kept her alive -- " 

"You call this keeping her alive?" Luke shouted, suddenly overcome with rage. "Why couldn't he just grab her and bring her here, the way you did? Why couldn't he have just knocked down the other man and run off? Why -- why -" There were no words. He felt relieved and angry and just so, so tired of being worried and scared and threatened by this damnable purity nonsense. 

"It's okay," said Wendy quietly, when he laid his forehead on her shoulder. "I'm all right. I just feel a little... twitchy." 

"You're not all right," said Madam Pomfrey brusquely, jamming her knee into Luke's ribs to get in closer, her wand out and moving along Wendy's body. "You're going to feel some effects for quite a while." 

"Why? What happened?" asked Luke impatiently, rubbing his side. 

"I was walking down by the Marina," Wendy began softly. "I had just passed a large boat when two men in cloaks jumped out at me -- at first I thought they might just be ordinary rapists -" she snorted. "Ordinary rapists! This is absurd," she added, with a feeble laugh. 

"Anyway," she went on, sounding tired, "I realized they were wizards when they pulled out their wands, and one of them said to just kill me -- I think his name was Lucius -- and then Severus said that he wanted me to suffer, and put that curse -- whatever it was -- on me." 

"What curse?" asked Luke. 

"The Cruciatus Curse," explained Albus. "It causes pain. It's an Unforgivable Curse; use of it on another human being means a life sentence in Azkaban, the wizard prison." 

"So will Severus go to prison for using it on Wendy?" Luke hoped he didn't sound too eager. 

"No," said Albus. 

"Why not?" 

"It can't be traced to my wand," said a new voice. They whirled around to see Severus Snape staggering into the Hospital Wing, looking exhausted. 

"Severus," said Albus, going swiftly over to him and supporting him under one shoulder. "Severus, sit down, you need to rest." 

Madam Pomfrey's knee his Luke's ribs again as she left Wendy to join Albus. 

"Headmaster, I am perfectly capable of standing," he said, but weaved dangerously and would have fallen if he had not been supported. 

Madame Pomfrey clucked her tongue, shoved him onto the bed next to Wendy's. "Good heavens, Severus, did you Apparate here?" 

He nodded. 

"Across seven thousand miles, including four thousand of ocean -- you foolish, foolish man," she went on. "I want you to drink all of this -- I insist, Severus! It's just Dreamless Sleep, you brewed it yourself. Drink! And you can explain to Albus in the morning." 

He took the goblet, but didn't drink it. "Albus," he said urgently, "I need to tell you -- " 

"It's all right," Albus said gently. "Between Harry and Wendy I have a good picture." 

Anger flared in Severus' face. "Potter!" he spat with renewed vigor. "Has he not learned anything from last year?" 

"That will do, Severus," said Albus calmly. "Drink your potion; we will talk in the morning." 

Severus finally downed the goblet in one gulp. He collapsed sideways onto the pillow, and the goblet clattered to the floor. 

Madam Pomfrey bent to pick it up, shaking her head and muttering something that sounded like, "Wizards." Then she pointed her wand at some screens in the corner, which came clattering over noisily and set themselves up between Wendy and Severus' beds. 

"Luke?" said Albus gently, placing his hand on Luke's shoulder. 

Luke looked up into his lined face. Albus' blue eyes were worried behind the half-moon spectacles. 

"Shall we have some tea in your rooms? We must talk." 

"All right," Luke said, finally getting up. "I'll come see you soon," he promised Wendy. "Sleep," he added, kissing her on the forehead. 

She smiled at him. "You, too," she said. "I'm fine, now. Or at least, I will be." 

"Harry?" said Albus. 

Luke realized with a start that Harry had been standing in the shadows during the entire scene. He hoped that Harry wasn't a rumormonger. 

"Yes, Professor?" said Harry, blinking. 

"Would you like to stay the night here in the Hospital Wing, or go back to Gryffindor Tower?" 

Harry shook his head. "I'll -- I'll go back to Gryffindor Tower." He sounded utterly exhausted. He turned and left the infirmary, walking slowly. 

Luke felt a pang of sympathy for him. Harry had no parents, no real support network apart from his friends and teachers, and with that whole conflct with Voldemort thing -- how the boy could sleep at night, Luke didn't know. Though, considering the bags under his eyes, Harry didn't sleep. 

Harry disappeared out into the hallway, and Luke, after sharing a quick but tender kiss with Wendy, followed Albus out the door. 

When Poppy had finally left her to rest, Wendy snuck out of bed and peeked around the curtains. She knew she should be lying down -- her feet sent little tingles of pain up her legs with every step, but she wanted to get a good look at Severus. 

She felt very strange about him now. She owed him her life, and yet it was his fault she still felt tingles of pain every minute or so. Five minutes under that horrible curse; she'd never forget those five minutes for as long as she lived. 

Had he really had to keep her alive? And what was that comment about "Beauty always looks so compelling when under stress"? Did he think she was beautiful? Even if he did, she wasn't anyone special to him -- she was just another Muggle, just a girl that Luke cared about. Wouldn't it have been easier to simply have her killed? As horrible as the thought was, if Severus was really working for the good side as a spy for the Death Eaters, then he'd just endangered his position. When the other man -- Lucius? -- woke up, Severus must have had a lot of explaining to do. It was his fault that the attack had failed, for if Severus hadn't spent precious time torturing her, Davitt wouldn't have had time to find her. Wouldn't it simply have been easier to let her die and keep his position in the grand scheme of things? 

Wendy studied him leisurely, letting her mind drift. Dark hair, shiny with oil and thin. Skin so pale she wondered if he ever went outside. High cheekbones and a beaklike nose. His eyes were closed, but she could remember them: black and opaque, with no hint of the thoughts behind. Though, when he'd apologized to her before -- before doing it, there had been genuine regret in them. Perhaps it was because he regretted torturing people that he was now on the side of good. 

It was strange to think of life as being good versus evil. There were terrorists in the Muggle world, horrible terrorists. But often such people had justifiable grievances against the rest of the world -- having their homeland stolen from them, having their rights violated and way of life destroyed. Voldemort's crusade was simply an ethnic cleansing, a holocaust of Muggles. He had as much right as Hitler had to do the things he was doing, which was to say, none. 

Wendy woke the next morning feeling very refreshed. The bed beside her was empty, the curtains drawn back -- no doubt Severus had had to continue teaching. There was a note on the bedside table from Luke: 

_Wendy -- _

Albus is making me teach today; I'll see you at lunch. I love you. 

Luke. 

Simple and short. She loved him too. 

Poppy came over just then and fussed over her, poking and prodding with her wand. She gave Wendy a potion to drink every hour, and it was only after Wendy had taken the first dose and been poked and prodded some more that Poppy allowed her to be propped up in bed to read. She had not, however, been allowed to leave the bed to fetch the book, which Poppy brought from a sagging little shelf by the door. _The Potions Masters' Mistress,_ it was. 

_Henrietta Goodlove was a simple country girl in every way,_ Wendy read from the back cover. _Every Tuesday she would go to the apothecary to fetch potions for her ailing mother. But money is running out, and Henrietta has no one to turn to for help. When Helmut Welhung, the German Potions Master with a mysterious past, discovers this, at first he sees just a way to take advantage of a pretty girl in trouble. But Henrietta has more than just her wand up her sleeve..._

Wendy snorted. Just what she needed -- a cheesy romance novel to take her mind off ... things. 

She had just reached a very enjoyable point where Henrietta, fully naked, and Helmut, halfway naked, are having a raving argument about the use of dried nettle in a Pleasuring Potion, along with examples of its use interspersed graphically throughout the scene when the sound of an argument outside the Hospital reached her ears. 

"But couldn't you just grab her and whatever it is you people do -- Apparate? Then she wouldn't be in the state she's in!" That was Luke. 

"Mr. Navarra, had I taken her in front of Lucius, I would have lost my position in the Dark Lord's inner circle." 

"Bugger your inner circle. Wendy was minutes away from insanity, you heard Albus!" 

She had not known that. Wendy set the book down to listen intently. 

"The Headmaster exaggerates, Mr. Navarra. I know that curse intimately --" 

"Because you've used it so often, no doubt!" 

"-- and I would have lifted it the moment she came near to danger. And I remind you --" Severus' voice became so low that Wendy had trouble hearing, "-- that my position in the Dark Lord's inner circle is what gave us the chance to save her. Had I not told the Dark Lord myself, no doubt one of the students here would have informed their father, and I would have heard nothing about it until the Potter boy decided to inform us of his visions." 

"But don't you even feel regret that you've harmed her? That you made her suffer?" Luke's voice was wavering. He was horrible at confrontations, Wendy knew, and he must be absolutely furious to be arguing with someone like this. Well, she'd be furious if the same thing happened to him. "Or are you just an unfeeling bastard who doesn't care how much pain people feel as long as they're alive?" 

There was a long silence. Severus' reply was very quiet. "I do not regret saving her life. I do regret that she had to suffer because of me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my work." 

One set of footsteps died away before Luke came into the Hospital Wing. Thinking that it would be best to pretend she hadn't heard, Wendy hastily picked up her book. 

"Hi," said Luke when he was at her side. 

"Hi," she said, putting the book down and folding over her page. 

Luke pulled over a chair, kissed her gently, and sat down. "How are you feeling?" he asked. 

"Much better," she said honestly. "The tingling is almost gone and my headache is completely gone. Poppy says I can get out of here tonight." 

"So you'll be okay?" he asked seriously. 

"Yeah," she said. 

"Because if there had been any lasting damage, I'd probably kill Severus," he said vehemently. "And I mean that," he added. 

"But he kept me alive," Wendy protested. "If he'd just let Lucius kill me, Davitt would have been too late." 

Luke waved that aside. "He should have figured out another way. I was just talking with him, out in the corridor -- I don't suppose you heard?" he asked her nervously. 

"No," Wendy lied. "I was too busy reading about Henrietta and the various uses of Pleasuring Potion that Helmut's discovered," she said, gesturing to the book. 

Luke did not take the profferred bait. "I don't know why he was up here in the first place -- when I came up, he was just standing outside the door. Anyways, he doesn't seem to feel sorry." Luke seemed about to go on ranting, but Wendy took his hand. 

"Luke," she said, very sincerely, "Luke, look at me. Look into my eyes." He did, and she could see tears. "I've forgiven Severus. I'm grateful that he found a way to keep me alive. Can you forgive him, please? For me?" 

Luke turned away, but she put her hands on his head and forced him to look at her. He looked lost, forlorn, and angry at the same time. Uncertain of himself, but certain of his emotions. His face was tense and upset, inches away from breaking down. 

"Please," she whispered. 

He swallowed. 

Harry was thrilled to see that all of the Gryffindor sixth-years had made it to N.E.W.T.-level Defense Against the Dark Arts. Although he really shouldn't be, he felt inordinately proud of his pupils, and quite wanted to puff out his chest as he watched Neville duck Tonks' Jelly-Legs and send a Stupefy in her direction. "In her direction" was perhaps the best phrase, really, as it soared a good foot over her head and knocked a picture frame off the wall, causing its inhabitants to scatter frantically for nearby portraits. 

_"Expelliarmus!"_ Tonks shouted from her crouch, and Neville's wand went soaring out of his hand, landing ten feet behind him. 

"That was really good, Neville," said Tonks as the boy, pink in the face, went to retrieve his wand. "You ducked quickly and didn't take any time to recover from the hit." Neville grinned with pride as he absently turned his new wand over in his hands. 

Tonks turned back to the class. "Now, who wants to go ne-" 

_"Expelliarmus!"_ cried Neville, and this time he hit her, squarely in the back, sending her sprawling forward and her wand flying ten feet into the air. The Gryffindors, all standing, rushed to catch her, and Neville deftly snatched her wand. 

"Are you okay?" 

"Professor, you all right?" 

Tonks got to her feet, grinning widely. "Neville's just taught us lesson number one, folks," she said. "Never turn your back on an armed enemy." 

They all laughed, and Neville gave Tonks back her wand with a small flourish. 

"As I was saying," she continued, "who's next?" 

Lavender went next, and sent up a very good Shield Charm that enabled her to resist Tonks' barrage of minor jinxes for several minutes. Lavender pointedly regarded the nails on her left hand (her right was busy with the wand), then grinned at Seamus, who went pink. Lavender suddenly dropped the Shield and sent a disarming spell towards Tonks, who, naturally, blocked it and sent it back to her. Lavender ducked and shot an Impediment Jinx towards the professor, but Tonks was faster and snapped a Full Body-Bind on her before the spell was completely out of Lavender's mouth. 

"Good work," she said. Lavender stayed immobile. "Sorry, Miss Brown!" she said, laughing. "Can I get one of you boys to prop her up against the wall so she can see?" 

Seamus did so, to much hooting and good-natured catcalling. Lavender's eyes rolled, and Harry could have sworn she went pink. 

Tonks tested all the Gryffindors in this way, and Harry was so happy with their performances he felt like bursting. Parvati had really worked over the summer, it seemed, as had Seamus. Seamus wasn't exactly one of Harry's pupils from the D.A., but Lavender must have given him some pointers, for he lasted a good three minutes under Tonks' barrage. 

Then it was Harry's turn. 

There was an almost feral smile playing on Tonk's face, and she rolled the sleeves of her robes up to the elbow as he came to the front of the classroom. He wondered what it would be like, actually duelling an Auror. He'd fought Death Eaters, who undoubtedly trained well under Voldemort, but an Auror, who spent three years learning how to duel, would surely be an amazing challenge. 

"I think we'll need a bit more room," Tonks said, and waved her wand to push the desks and chairs back all the way against the walls. Several fell over. 

The class seemed to be holding its breath as Harry and Tonks bowed formally to each other. "Ready?" she said. He nodded. "Can we get a count of three?" she said to the class. 

"One -- two -- THREE!" bellowed several voices. 

"Expelliarmus!" Harry cried. 

"Impedimenta!" said Tonks at the same time. They both ducked, though Harry felt a breeze ripple his hair as he dove under a convenient desk. 

"Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted. 

"Protego!" she cried, and he scooted out of the way just in time. 

She had the advantage of being on her feet, but he had the advantage of the desk being in her way. In order to get at him, she'd have to duck down, which would give him time -- 

"Reducto!" The desk broke apart in splinters above him, but Harry was rolling away, those Quidditch reflexes taking over. As he rolled, he saw flashes of the classroom, and tried to identify a safe place to hide, but there was none, unless you counted behind Ron, and that simply wouldn't do. 

So he stood up. Tonks shot another disarming spell at him, but he was ready. "Protego!" he shouted, and Tonks, caught off her guard, almost didn't duck in time. "Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted again, and this time he scored. Tonks froze, her arms snapped into place beside her, and she fell with a thud. Harry sauntered over and snatched her wand out of her hand. 

"Should I just leave her here?" he called to the class. 

They grinned and hooted, "Yes!" with an especially loud call from the newly de-Petrified Lavender. Even Hermione was smiling, though she hadn't called out. Tonks was glaring at him, as much as a fully immobile person can. "It was a good duel, you know," he said conversationally to her prone figure. "Quite challenging, really." 

Tonks suddenly reached up with both hands and grabbed his chest, turned him over, and was suddenly lying on top of him with one knee perilously close to his sensitive areas. 

"Lesson number one, remember?" she said, with that feral smile. "Actually, it's more of a variant: don't assume that you've won." 

"How -- how did you -- I mean, what was -- _how did you do that?_" he exclaimed, as Tonks hauled him to his feet. 

"There's a way of fighting Petrificus that I'll be showing you this term," she said. "I think that's what I want to focus on for you as a class," she added. "Harry here has taught you a lot of the offensive spells, and you've all developed pretty good reflexes for ducking. But you only know the Shield Charm, which isn't very powerful, and we Aurors have got a good bag of tricks for resisting most minor jinxes and hexes." 

Everyone was listening intently, looking eager. 

"You're quite ahead of most sixth-years, I understand," she went on. "I've looked at the _N.E.W.T. Educational Standards of 1994_ quite thoroughly, and sixth years are supposed to start learning how to combine the spells into coherent duels. You lot have done that very well, if on a basic level, but you're still well ahead." She gave them a moment to grin at each other, which many did. "Now, there's one more thing," she said, her voice turning serious. "I've heard that several of you can cast Patronuses. Izzat true?" 

Several nodded, a few said, "Er, a bit." 

"Can I get a few demonstrations?" Tonks asked, grinning. 

The only person who didn't manage quite a solid Patronus was Seamus, but then again, Harry reflected, he'd only just started in on them. Even Neville managed one, and everyone was quite surprised to see a large and malevolent vulture flying from his wand. 

He shrugged, as if to say, "Hey, I know as much as you." No one would ever forget the sight of Snape in that vulture-topped hat, Harry realized, as a few people giggled. 

"Okay, class, I think that's everything," Tonks said finally when Hermione's otter had faded away. "Homework -- don't groan, of course there's homework! -- I want you all to write me 18 inches on the Shield Charm and its weaknesses. _With_ references," she added. "And no copying from Hermione!" she added over the noise of packing. 

"Was that a cool lesson or what?" said Ron, as the three of them headed to dinner. "She's fast!" 

"Of course she is, Ron, she's an Auror," said Hermione. 

"But Harry got her," said Ron. "And Harry's no Auror -- not yet, anyways. And did you see Neville! Actually hitting her with a spell! I mean, it actually hit her, it didn't go wavering off in some random direction!" 

"Hey!" protested Neville's voice behind them. 

"Oh, sorry, Neville," said Ron. "But you have to admit-" 

"Well, the new wand's been loads better," said Neville shyly. "Twelve-and-a-quarter inches, dragon heartstring and ebony," he said proudly. "Gran was furious that I broke Dad's wand, but the new one's simply amazing." He flicked it idly, causing a shower of gold sparks to fly out of the tip. "Can't wait to learn more," he said quietly, then headed off up the corridor past them. 

"He's changed," said Ron. 

There was a moment of silence amongst the trio. Then Hermione said, "I suppose we should go eat?" and they followed in Neville's direction. 


	8. Say My Name, Say My Name

**Chapter 8: Say My Name, Say My Name**

Green eyes taunted him, flirted with him, looked back at him horrified, afraid not of death, but of dying without a chance to fight, to have the last word. Eyes that begged him for mercy opened wide in shock _this can't be real oh god this isn't happening_ eyes that wanted to die to stop the pain to close but couldn't because vision was the only thing keeping the body connected... keeping the body... 

A splash of brown hair on a hospital wing pillow, skin so pale that it almost matched the bleached sheets. How would that skin look, healthy, with a slight sheen of sweat? How would those lips, with those barely-too-big front teeth showing behind them, look, curved in a sultry smile, telling him that he was the one she wanted, the one who made her feel so good, the one she needed, not that buffoon with the painted smile barely holding in a panicked confusion? A voice that encouraged him to do things with her body, to hold her here, touch her there, put his lips right there, oh yes, oh yes, oh please, more, more, yes, oh, oh, ooh, yesyesyesyes... 

Severus woke, discovering sheets wet with more than just sweat. He swore, but the chosen words weren't very wise ones, as they simply encouraged his overactive imagination to produce more images of that Muggle -- that thoroughly uninteresting and unattractive Muggle -- in the Hospital Wing. 

Still swearing under his breath, Severus got up and tore the sodden sheets off the bed, leaving them in a pile on the floor for the House-Elves. The clock told him, in a very quiet voice, that it was six a.m. -- not too early for a shower. A cold shower. 

His mirror sniggered as he entered the bathroom. Severus had to resist a strong desire to throw the thing on the ground and smash it to pieces. Instead, he stepped under the nozzle and turned the cold tap on. The shock of cold water distracted him quickly from his physical problems, but not with the mental ones. Those eyes: he couldn't get them out of his head! Pleading, beautiful, scared, brave, sad, so green... so like Lily's... 

_That_ was a line of thought he didn't want to continue. He'd had plenty of practice with that particular one, though, so distraction came easily. Lily Evans quickly became Lily Potter, which reminded him of James Potter and Sirius Black and Remus Lupin and that despicable Wormtail, and that gave his mind plenty of horrible things to dwell upon, not the least of which was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named... 

No. 

Voldemort. 

Severus could say the name in his head, could even mouth the syllables, but never had he been able to bring himself to actually say the word. "Voldemort," he mouthed to the shower wall. "Voldemort," he mouthed again, with a slight hiss of air on "Vol." A whisper. He could manage that, surely? The whole name, just once, in the protection of his own bathroom in the dungeons of Hogwarts, safest place on earth. He could, he really could. That idiot Potter boy did it; Sirius had done so; what was stopping Severus Snape, the unsung hero of the First War? 

"Voldemort." The word echoed icily off the tiles. Severus shuddered. "Warmer," he ordered. 

Soap, cloth. Legs, chest, other body parts that had finally relaxed. Scrubbing under his armpits, Severus thought about the Potter boy. He still had to arrange Occlumency lessons with the brat. No doubt the ability to see into the Dark Lord's -- Voldemort's -- thoughts was useful, but the only way to prevent more occurrences like the vision of Black was to completely block all input. Potter couldn't understand that. His desire to feel important and useful was, as always, overbalancing his sense of survival. Perhaps the death of Black would hammer into Potter the need to prevent _any_ Legilimency between the two minds. Or perhaps Potter would find some way to absolve himself of the blame and place it on a convenient scapegoat -- most likely himself, Severus thought cynically. 

Severus rinsed the shampoo from of his hair, then stepped out. 

"Cold shower do the trick, eh?" sneered his mirror. 

"Sod off." 

If Luke's first- and second-year beginning musicianship students were curious about the visitor in his class Wednesday morning, they were too subdued to ask. He led them through the basics of reading music with his mind completely elsewhere, then set them up with a worksheet to go through during the remaining fifteen minutes. 

As Luke passed out the sheets of parchment, he thought wistfully of the two dilapidated copiers back in the Berkeley music library. Several days before, he had written out the worksheet in his wire-bound notebook, and the pleasure of completion had been but fleeting; he'd immediately felt a very familiar sinking feeling as he realized that there were no photocopiers or computers at Hogwarts. It would have to be written out _by hand,_ every single sheet. 

He'd reluctantly reached for his notebook, mentally tallying how many students would need it, and begun copying. Hours later, Winky had come across him scribbling madly and swearing at the more and more frequent mistakes he made. With a high-pitched lecture about how Master Luke wasn't letting her do her job if he didn't call upon her whenever she was needed, she had snatched the original out of his shaking hands, vanished with a _crack!_ and reappeared seconds later to ask how many he would need. 

"Um... a hundred?" he'd said. 

Thirty seconds later, just long enough for him to sink back onto his couch and doze off, she was back, with a hundred small rolls of parchment, each an identical copy of his original. 

The worksheet was long and tedious, no doubt, but the only way to learn how to read music was to practice. Luke wandered up and down the aisles of desks, pointing out errors, answering questions, giving help when asked, and was only mildly surprised to see Wendy doing the same. His questioning eyebrow received a shrug. 

"Might as well," she whispered to him when their paths crossed. 

In almost no time, the bell had rung, the first- and second-years were back out in the corridor, and a batch of fifth and sixth-years took their place. This was his most diverse class, with students like Parvati Patil, completely tone-deaf; Vincent Crabbe, who could sing beautifully but not read music; and Harry Potter, who could sing back anything he heard once, no matter how long or complicated it was. Well, they'd have to learn how to read music just the same as the first- and second-years. He gave them the same basic information, then handed out the worksheet. 

As Luke was bending down to check Parvati's work, he heard the classroom door open, and straightened up. 

It was Professor Snape. He carried a steaming goblet in one hand, his wand in the other. 

"Miss Maurits forgot to take her potion," he said tonelessly, looking at something over Luke's shoulder. "Madam Pomfrey also wanted me to check on her." 

"Oh, thanks, Severus," said Wendy with a grateful smile. She went over to the door to relieve him of the goblet. "What's in it?" she asked, bringing it to her lips. 

Luke was absolutely furious! For Snape to just walk into his classroom as though he were actually welcome, and to give a potion to Wendy as though he were responsible for keeping her well! 

"Dried nettles, powdered scarab beetle -- " Snape said. 

Wendy pulled the goblet away from her lips with a horrified glance, and Snape arched one eyebrow and smirked. 

"Various other insects. I just brewed it," Snape continued, "so it will be extremely hot." 

Wendy still didn't drink. 

"It's the same thing Poppy gave you last night," Snape said, sounding irritated. "Drink." 

Wendy sighed and sipped carefully; Snape watched her drink; Luke watched Snape. 

And the thirty eagerly listening students ignored their worksheets and watched the trio, instead. 

The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap. "All right, enough entertainment," said Luke with a tense chuckle. "Back to work." Heads bent back over their parchments. 

"You brew potions?" Wendy asked Snape quietly. 

"Yes; I am the Potions Master here," Snape replied evenly. 

"Oh," she said, and continued to sip. 

Parvati had her hand up for a question, but Luke was pretending not to see it. Why was Snape watching Wendy so closely? Had he poisoned the goblet? Luke was struck by a sudden urge to knock it out of her hand, but suppressed it. Albus trusted Snape, and Albus did not seem the sort to trust the wrong people. But still... why was he watching her drink so carefully? 

"What's this checkup Madam Pomfrey wants?" he asked suddenly. 

"When she is done drinking, I will perform it," said Snape curtly. 

"I'm curious, too," said Wendy. "What are you checking for?" 

Snape lowered his voice so far the Luke could barely hear him. "I will be checking your nerve endings to see that they are recovering properly. You might have lingering effects from ... yesterday. Madam Pomfrey would do this if you were still in the Infirmary, but I am ... well qualified ... to perform this check. I have done it many times." 

_I'll just bet you have,_ thought Luke savagely. Parvati waved her hand, shifting in her seat. 

Wendy sipped; Snape watched; Luke observed both. 

Wendy was such a generous person, Luke realized. Here in front of her was the man who tortured her because he didn't want to lose his position as a spy -- there was an important point there, Luke realized grudgingly, though Snape would never know that he admitted it -- and Wendy was now drinking his potion easily and graciously. If he were in her position, he'd probably have thrown a punch in Snape's face the moment he could. But there she was, sipping and watching the class. 

"Parvati is trying to get your attention, Luke," she said. "I should finish this; can you please help her?" 

And now she wasn't even telling him how selfish he was being by ignoring Parvati's arm. Luke felt like a possessive clod, and it only made him angrier at Snape. Wordlessly he left her to her potion and went to deal with Parvati. 

"Please, Luke, I just don't get it," Parvati said, waggling her eyelashes at him. How hard was it to get? he thought savagely, keeping an eye on Wendy. If Snape had poisoned that goblet... 

"What don't you get?" he asked politely. Snape moved slightly closer to Wendy. 

"How am I supposed to tell what a note is when it's above the... um... staff?" she asked. Wendy had paused with the goblet at her lips but wasn't drinking, while Snape talked. 

"Ledger lines follow the same lettering pattern as the regular staff lines," Luke explained. "You just keep going." 

Wendy now took a slow sip. 

"So the first space is an F again, then?" asked Parvati. 

Wendy took the goblet away and said something in return, gesturing negligently with her left hand. 

"No, it's a G. You just continue the letters once you've reached the top or bottom line," said Luke. 

Snape said something back to Wendy, head bent close, face urgent. 

"See? This one here is an F, so the next one up is a G." 

"And on the way down," said Parvati, as though a ligh bulb had just switched on -- perhaps she actually had been confused -- "the bottom line is an E, so the next one down is a... a D?" 

Wendy smiled gently at Snape, then shook her head. 

"Exactly," said Luke. "You've got it. The same principle applies to all the other clefs." 

Snape seemed less tense now, Luke thought. Wendy drained her goblet quickly and made a face. She passed it back to him with a "Thank you" that Luke could read on her lips. 

Snape pulled out his wand, and Luke jerked suddenly. In a classroom full of students! The potion was bad enough, but this! He all but ran across the room, brushing the papers off Hermione's desk where they sat piled neatly. "What are you doing?" he hissed at Snape. "There are students here!" 

Snape turned cold eyes on him. "I'm going to run a simple scan to make sure she's healing," he said, in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "You needn't worry," he said with a sneer, "I won't transfigure her or jinx her." 

Indeed, all Snape did was point the wand at Wendy and mutter something, and an orange glow surged out of his wand tip to flutter around her head. It dipped and danced briefly there before moving six inches down to her neck; after a few more seconds, it moved further down. 

"Oh! That tickles!" said Wendy, gasping. 

"Good," said Snape. 

Luke glared at him. So did Wendy. 

"Your nerve endings work," Snape said coldly. 

"Oh." 

Luke continued to glare at him. He wasn't sure why he was taking such a dislike to the man, but the way he acted towards Wendy -- as though every interaction was painful -- didn't exactly warm him to the heart. Did the man hate Muggles so much? If so, why hadn't he just killed her and been done with it? Something prickled behind Luke's eyes. It wasn't tears. No, it was just the dust in here. It needed cleaning for sure. 

The orange flutter had reached Wendy's feet. It did one last dance around them, then disappeared. "What's the verdict?" Wendy asked casually. 

Snape raised an eyebrow at her. 

She simply looked at him. "You're fine," he finally said. "Good day to you both," he added, then left. 

The bell that rang then could not have been more welcome to Luke. "Finish these sheets before next class," he called over the din. 

Harry thought Hermione was irritated that Luke had knocked her pile of papers over, but when he went over to help her, she merely looked perplexed. 

"What's up?" he asked. 

She was silent for a moment as she sorted her papers in some uniquely Hermione-esque system. Just as he was about to ask her again, she spoke. "I'm wondering why Snape bothered to come find Wendy." 

"You'd think he would hate Muggles," Harry said as they left the classroom. 

"No, it's not that," she said. "He's not a Death Eater anymore, remember?" 

"But he was once," said Harry, "so he must have had their opinions at some point. How can we know that he's let go of them?" 

"All I'm saying," she persisted, "is that you would expect him to want to avoid Luke. You said that it was Snape who used the Cruciatus on her-" 

"Right," said Harry. 

"-so wouldn't he want to keep his distance from Luke?" 

"But Luke's no threat to him, he's a Muggle." 

"But so is Wendy." 

Harry waited. Hermione looked like she was going to be silent for a while. 

"And?" he prompted. 

"Oh, I don't know, Harry. It just seems strange that Snape would brew a potion for her and come up to Luke's classroom to find her, that's all. And I wonder what that spell was?" she mused. "I don't think I've ever seen an orange Medi-spell before, have you?" 

"Nope." 

Ron joined them in the crowds thronging to lunch. 

"How was Music?" he asked them cheerfully. 

They told him what had happened between Luke, Wendy, and Snape. He looked confused when they'd finished. "But Snape hates Muggles," he said. 

"We don't know that, Ron," said Hermione. 

"But he was a Death Eater!" The three of them took seats at the end farthest from the High Table, where the object of their conversation was drinking from a goblet. 

"Yes, he _was,_" Hermione argued. "Past tense." 

"That's what I said," Harry retorted. "How are we to know he doesn't still think that Muggles are trash?" 

"But," whispered Hermione as they sat down, "he saved her life. He could have just left her to die." 

"Maybe he didn't want a stink with Luke," said Ron through a mouthful of potato. 

Hermione looked thoughtful. "You know, that could be right," she said. 

"I love it when she says that," said Ron triumphantly, and took an indecently large mouthful of pork chop. 

"What's this?" said Ginny, swinging a leg over the bench. "Ron's in love with Hermione? Has he finally admitted it?" Ginny's leg seemed to take a long time to get from one side to the other; or maybe Harry's sense of time simply slowed when he noticed a flash of freckled skin. 

Ron and Hermione both blushed furiously and avoided each other's eyes. "No," Ron protested angrily through his pork. "I said I love it when Hermione says that I could be right." 

"Right about what?" she asked, looking from one to the other. 

They told her. "Of course Snape would want to make sure she was all right!" she exclaimed. "It's his fault, after all." 

"You mean you think he's got a conscience in that greasy head?" asked Ron. 

"Of course he has a conscience," she said. 

Ron and Harry stared at her. "That's what I think, too," said Hermione. "After all, he would have stayed with ... well, his previous group," she said delicately, "if he'd not had one." 

"How do we know that?" insisted Ron. 

"All right, we don't know it for certain," Hermione said, pouring herself a glass of pumpkin juice, "but it seems awfully cruel to say that Snape -- " She broke off as the object of their conversation entered the Great Hall, followed by the two Muggles. 

"Ooh, Luke doesn't look happy," said Ginny. 

She was right -- Harry realized that Luke's smile didn't reach his eyes, though he was giving all the outward signs of being eager to get to dinner. 

"I bet he's angry at Snape," said Ron sagely. "What did you say happened, Harry? Cruciatus for five minutes?" 

"Yeah," Harry agreed. 

Ron let out a low whistle. "Wow." 

Harry shuffled his feet as he made his way along the corridors to Snape's dungeon. He really, _really_ didn't want to study Occlumency, especially after Sirius... No. He wasn't going to think about it. 

"Enter," said Snape's cold voice when Harry knocked. 

The dungeon office still held the horrible slimy things in jars, still had the big desk dominating the room. It was still slightly too dark for comfort, and slightly too cold. The Pensieve was nowhere to be seen, though. Maybe Snape didn't feel the need for it, now that Harry had seen what had been in it. 

Harry made as much of closing the door behind him as he could, trying to delay the moment when he would have to turn and face that sallow face, the eyes glittering, as always, with various degrees of repressed malice. 

"You are five minutes late, Potter," said Snape. 

"Sorry," Harry muttered. "Sir," he added. 

"Did you practice over the summer?" Snape asked. 

"Yes," Harry said, truthfully for once. He had indeed practiced while at the Dursleys'. With nothing to do in the evenings, it had been a short step from lying on his bed in extreme boredom to actively emptying his mind of all thoughts. Maybe it had worked, maybe it hadn't. He had still dreamed of Voldemort, still woken in the night with his scar prickling. And, of course, he had seen, through Voldemort's eyes, Lucius Malfoy being sent to America to kill the Muggle. 

"Look at me when you speak to me, Potter," Snape growled. 

Harry looked at him. "Yes, I practiced," he repeated angrily. He waited a beat. "Sir." 

Snape's eyes bored into him. "We shall see," he eventually said. "We shall see. Get your wand out, Potter." They faced each other over the desk. "Close your eyes. Clear your mind of all emotions." 

Harry furiously pushed down the thought that clearing his mind with Snape standing in front of him with a wand was extremely difficult. _Blank,_ he thought. _Blankness, nothingness..._

"Ready?" said Snape too soon. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "One, two, three -- _Legilimens!_" 

Harry was nine, shouting at his uncle through the door of his cupboard, rubbing his head where Uncle Vernon had hit him. He was ten, surrounded by a gang of Dudley's friends, who were . He was eleven, watching Hagrid open Diagon Alley for the first time. He was twelve, seeing Riddle's outline over Ginny's cold body. Then he was thirteen, and Hermione was pulling a time-turner out from her robes... _He doesn't know about that,_ Harry thought furiously. No, I won't let him find out! As the memory drew near to the place Harry had identified as the front of his mind, for lack of a better identification, he tried to alter it, tried to blur the image of the time-turner, but it was like trying to grab at a bar of soap in the shower; it kept slipping and altering, snapping in and out of focus as the two of them fought for control. 

Harry lost, and Hermione finished pulling the time-turner out of her robes. In quick succession, Harry saw memories from that night; watching himself beign thrashed by the willow; watching Lupin transform and run towards them; casting a Patronus at the Dementors crowded around himself and Sirius; flying on Buckbeak up to the window of the tower and rescuing Sirius; watching Sirius and Buckbeak disappear into the night. 

The images faded, and Harry found himself kneeling on the floor, his wand several feet away. "Stand up," he snarled. 

Harry slowly got to his feet and picked up his wand. They faced each other for a long moment over the desk. Snape's expression was calculating. 

"It is always interesting," he finally said, "to see in your memories explanations of events past. That last one, for instance." A small smile curved his thin lips. "I now remember Minerva McGonagall mentioning, rather smugly, that Miss Granger had needed a time turner to get to all her classes. You were indeed in two places at once." He seemed sinisterly triumphant. "No doubt Dumbledore must have been exceptionally pleased at such a convenient solution to save his favorite Gryffindor." 

Harry stood, listlessly, wondering suddenly what the point was. Why bother teaching him how to block his thoughts if he was so obviously inept? 

"We go again," said Snape. "Try harder, Potter." 

Harry raised his wand mechanically, despair welling up inside him. He wouldn't cry. He would not cry in front of Snape. He pushed it down. 

"Close your eyes. Empty your mind. One, two three -- _Legilimens!_" 

Harry's mind was already blank with despair, so he didn't even bother. If only Snape didn't see the embarrassing memories as well as the normal ones. 

...A giant snake was circling a tombstone where Harry sat, tied... Wormtail was cradling his bleeding stump of an arm while jewel-bright lights sparkled across a cauldron big enough for a man to sit in... 

Harry sagged, mentally, knowing he would be forced to relive the whole thing no matter how hard he tried to block it. He relaxed his grip on the memories, resigned to reliving them. 

...hooded figures were emerging from dark trees, forming a circle around him, Wormtail, and the newly reborn Voldemort... 

And, suddenly, Harry was standing _in_ a circle, watching a figure writhing on the ground in pain while Voldemort laughed... he was kneeling at the foot of a throne, feeling disgust as he bent to kiss his master's hem... he was casting the Cruciatus curse at a girl lying in a Full Body-Bind on asphalt in the afternoon sun... 

"Enough!" shouted Snape. 

Harry, feeling as though he'd been pushed hard in the chest, stumbled backward, cracked his head on a shelf, and fell. Snape watched from behind his desk as Harry got heavily to his feet, his mind reeling as much as his balance. 

"What happened, Potter?" he said when Harry was upright again. He sounded furious. 

"I don't know, Professor," Harry said honestly. "It just..." 

"Describe to me what you did!" Snape shouted, and Harry realized that Snape's anger wasn't at the fact that Harry had been inside his memories, but at the entire teaching situation. "What was different?" 

Harry thought. "I relaxed," he said. "I stopped fighting." 

"Indeed," said Snape, almost looking thoughtful. "We go again. Clear your mind. One, two, three... _Legilimens!_" 

The office stayed in view, because Harry hadn't cleared his mind of his last thoughts, which were of the strange, relaxed feeling he'd just experienced. Someone was pushing at his chest from the inside, and there was a funny prickling in the back of his mind, but there were no memories flooding to the surface. Snape's eyes were focused on Harry's, and as a flash of dislike crossed Harry's mind, he was suddenly watching Bellatrix and Sirius duel in front of a stone archway..._No!_ he thought in anguish. He'd seen it often enough in his nightmares. But the moment was drawing nearer, and Harry tensed, waiting for the moment when he saw his godfather fall through the veil. 

"No!" shouted Snape from somewhere distant. "Relax!" 

And Harry remembered the feeling of detachment, and tried to sink into it, tried to relive that moment of looseness. But it was extremely hard to relax on command, and Harry's emotions were running high with the memory of Sirius'... of Sirius'... The office flickered in and out, and the memory was flicking back and forth, like a videotape paused. 

Snape lowered his wand. The memory cleared, and Harry was still standing. His face felt wet. 

"Well," Snape finally said, in a voice that begrudged every word, "I suppose that was quite good." 

The days passed peacefully enough for Wendy. She helped Luke in his classes, marking papers, handing out worksheets faithfully copied by Winky, the house-elf, answering questions when the students were working on their own, and in general being the ideal teacher's aide. 

Peaceful, but boring. She wanted to explore the castle, the grounds, and swim in the lake. Albus, who was such a sweet old man, had told her that the giant squid was perfectly harmless, and that it was perfectly safe as long as she stayed near the surface. He'd vaguely mentioned Grindylows, whatever they were; but anything that was described as a "demon" was something she wanted to steer completely clear of. 

The castle might as well have been her prison. She never went anywhere alone, always escorted by Luke or Albus, or Madam Pomfrey. Even when she had to pee during a class, Luke hovered by the doorway until she was back, or begged her to wait until break time, when he could take her. Who was going to attack her inside a school? Did they think the students would harm her? Apparently they did, because it was Albus' order, couched as a gentle request, that made Luke watch her like a hawk. 

Still, the days were gorgeous and clear, with just a nip in the air that hinted of cold winter. It was mid-October, and she was supposed to be a young twenty-something studying at the University of California, Berkeley. Instead, she was stuck in a castle in Scotland. True, a magical castle that served as a wizards' school, and it was a beautiful castle, with beautiful scenery -- the hills! The hills that whispered _climb me, climb me_ whenever she saw them out a window. 

She was gazing out the window of their rooms now, and absently began to hum something from _The Sound of Music._

"You've really got it bad, haven't you?" said Luke sympathetically. 

"Got what?" she asked. 

He began to sing in a falsetto, "The hiiills are a-live.. with the souund of muuuusic..." he crooned. "You want to get out, don't you?" 

"Of course I want to get out!" she exploded. Suddenly she couldn't control herself, and rattled on in an exasperated sort of plea. "I'm cooped up inside this castle all day like a pet bird, with those hills out there and my school six thousand miles away! I'm not comfortable, okay! Scotland is all well and good, and it's great to see you, but I have a degree that I want to finish! I don't care that Davitt told them whatever about me, that they're not expecting me anytime soon, that I was called away for a family emergency or whatnot. I want my books and some peace and quiet in the library! I want my cello! I haven't practiced in more than a month, my calluses are all but gone, my fingers feel like rubber!" 

"Wendy," began Luke helplessly. 

"I know, I know, you're happy that I'm here; I'm so much help with the classes, you don't know how you'd manage without me, blah, blah, blah." 

"No, that's not -" he interrupted, but she steamrollered on. 

"I'm glad to be with you, really, I am, I love it," she said anxiously, "so don't think I don't like that. I just don't have a life here, and it's not right! I don't want to teach musicianship to twelve-year-olds, I want to teach history to adults, to do my own research. I want my computer, I need to work on my papers. I just can't do this whole quill thing all the time, either, it's so slow-" 

"Wendy!" Luke shouted. 

"What?" she shouted back. "Sorry," she said, "but I'm just going crazy, never alone-" 

"Stop," he said gently. 

She burst into tears. "I'm sorry," she wailed, as he took her in his arms. "I'm just feeling so displaced and homeless -- the only thing tying me to this castle is you and Severus." 

"Severus?" he asked, his arms tensing. "What's he got to do with it?" 

"He's the only person I sort of know, apart from you and Albus," she explained to Luke's shoulder. _And he's fascinating,_ she didn't add. Nor did she say, _I often wonder why he didn't just kill me, and I'm waiting for a chance to ask._

"Look," said Luke, "why don't I take you into Hogsmeade this weekend?" 

That did sound good. 

"It's a weekend for the students, too..." 

Wendy frowned. 

"...but they'll be too busy with their own stuff to even take a second look at us. Come on, it'll be fun. It's an entirely wizarding settlement, apparently. Just give it a try." 

"All right," she said grudgingly, but kissed him. 

Saturday morning it rained, which put a damper on some of the joy of a Hogsmeade weekend. Hermione even considered staying in to do some studying, but she needed some more green ink for her Transfiguration notes, and a quill with a bold nib wouldn't be a bad idea, either. So she let Ron convince her to come along with him, Harry, Ginny, Neville, and Luna, without too much objection. 

They splashed down the muddy road to the village, and Hermione let their voices wash over her, thinking vaguely about one thing after another. 

"...I swear, Ron, Parvati was making eyes at you at breakfast this morning! Didn't you see..." 

"... the new Nimbus Two Thousand and Two came out last week, three hundred Galleons just for the handle!..." 

"...of course, the Crumple-Horned Snorkack only eats four-leaf clovers..." 

"...and then, if you'll believe it, Tonks suddenly..." 

"...twelve-and-a-quarter inches, dragon heartstring and ebony. Gran was furious, but..." 

"Hey, look, you guys, isn't that Luke and his girlfriend?" Ginny's voice quieted the group. She pointed up the track where a couple huddled together under an umbrella outside the bookshop. One of them seemed to be pointing out buildings to the other. Hermione couldn't see either face from where she was, but as they drew closer, saw an intense expression of thoughtfulness on Wendy's face. 

"Is she really a Muggle?" asked Neville softly. 

"Yes," said Harry. "From California." 

"I reckon the weather doesn't make her too happy," said Ron. 

"Actually, San Francisco can be quite rainy and cold," said Hermione absently. 

"Wonder why they're here?" asked Ginny thoughtfully as they passed on the opposite side of the street from the two. 

"I expect she needs to have her Simvilloo trimmed," said Luna dreamily. 

"What's a Simvilloo?" asked Neville before Hermione could stop him. 

"All Muggles have them. It's a special sort of..." Hermione tuned out. 

The Three Broomsticks was especially crowded and steamy, and the six of them found a table in a corner to sit with their Butterbeers and, for Luna, gillywater. Ron and Harry got into an argument about the Nimbus Two Thousand and Two; Luna rhapsodized dreamily to a vacant-eyed Neville about the Gibbering Monwerdeck syndrome that was decimating the world's population of Blibbering Humdingers; and Ginny chatted cheerfully to Hermione about the singing lessons she had just started with a local witch who came up to the castle once a week. 

Then Hermione saw Draco Malfoy and his group of Slytherins take a nearby table and draw their heads together, expressions closed. 

"You're not listening to me, Hermione," said Ginny matter-of-factly. 

"No, I'm not," she admitted. "Look." She nodded in Malfoy's direction. 

"Oh," said Ginny. She nudged Harry, who was enumerating reason number four why the Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-Two's twig binding wasn't as good as the Two-Thousand-and-One's. She had to poke him several times. 

"What?" he snapped. 

She looked meaningfully over his shoulder. He turned his head to look casually behind him. 

"Oh," he said, in the same tone as Ginny. Ron glanced over, too. 

Luna and Neville were still in conversation... well, Luna was still talking at Neville. But it wasn't loud enough to mask all of the Slytherins' conversation. The words "Muggle," and "Luke," and "Wendy," and "my father," were easy enough to lipread. 

"I'm going to use the toilet," Hermione announced in an exceptionally bright tone, and got up from her chair. "Ginny, come with me?" 

"All right," said Ginny cheerfully. 

Their path, just by chance, took them right next to the Slytherins' table. Crabbe actually had to squeeze his chair in to let Hermione pass. She supposed it was a minor miracle that he actually had done so much for her, a Mudblood. Draco Malfoy didn't so much as glance at the two girls, which was fortunate for them. 

"...told Father that she's here, and Father says that by Halloween things should be ready..." said Malfoy. Pansy giggled maliciously. 

Hermione actually did use the toilet, while Ginny stood in front of the mirror, messing with her hair. 

"I wonder what's ready by Halloween?" Ginny asked as soon as the door was closed behind them, and they'd made sure they were alone. 

"Knowing Malfoy, something foul," Hermione said. "Do you think we should tell Professor Dumbledore what we heard?" 

"I dunno," Ginny said. Hermione heard the sound of running water. Ginny's voice was moving around, as though she were turning her head this way and that. "I wonder what Dumbledore can do." 

"Surely You-Know-Who wouldn't try to attack the school," Hermione said nervously. "Oh, dear," she added. "There's no paper in here." 

Ginny obligingly got her some from the other stall. "Maybe Malfoy's father will be sending him something... horrible. You know, to attack them." 

There was a silence. Hermione flushed the toilet and emerged from the stall. She ran the water in the sink, waiting for it to heat up. "Do you ever wonder if Malfoy knows the Unforgivables?" 

"No," said Ginny flatly. "I don't wonder." 

Hermione looked at her sharply. 

Ginny let her hair fall from the ponytail she was holding it up in. Her fists clenched at her sides. "He does." 

"How do you know?" gasped Hermione, lingering over the soap. She had never seen Ginny looking so angry. 

"I saw him using Cruciatus once," said Ginny in a low voice. "On someone's cat." 

"That's horrible!" Hermione exclaimed. 

"I know." 

There was a silence again while Hermione dried her hands. 

The mirror took that chance to say, "You know, dear, it looks very nice up in the ponytail. I know a nice charm for that..." 

The pub seemed unreal after the conversation in the toilet. Hermione and Ginny took a path by the Slytherins' table again, but the conversation had turned to general Dumbledore-bashing, and nothing interesting was gained. Crabbe did grunt something that sounded like, "'Lo, Granger" though, as he sucked his stomach in to make room for them. 

"Learn anything?" whispered Harry. 

Ginny and Hermione told him what they'd heard, and everyone started talking at once. Ron wanted to simply go over and beat Malfoy up until he told everything; Harry thought they should set a guard around Luke and Wendy; Neville suggested going to Dumbledore, or at least McGonnagall; and Luna insisted that Wendy's Simvilloo would protect her from the Killing Curse. 

Hermione had had enough. "There's no such thing as a Simvilloo," she hissed at Luna. "And there's no protection against the Killing Curse." 

"Yes, there is," insisted Luna calmly. "Harry's mother protected him." 

"All right, that was an exception. But Muggles have nothing-" 

"The Simvilloo forms an eclectric barrier around Muggles, and bounces the spells back to the attacker," said Luna matter-of-factly. "Have you ever seen a Muggle killed by magic?" 

"Well, not in person," Hermione admitted. "But the newspapers-" 

"The newspapers print rubbish sometimes," Luna said happily. 

Hermione gave up. 

Wendy had to admit that Butterbeer was good stuff, especially on a rainy day like this one. The pub was cheerful and well-lit, with no lingering smell of rancid alcohol that often permeated such places. Students were gathered in groups or couples, chatting with their arms waving expansively, conspiring with heads together, kissing furtively, comparing purchases with much laughter. And none of them were bothering to notice the teacher and his girlfriend standing at the bar with two mugs of Butterbeer. 

"Do you want to sit down?" Luke asked her. 

"All right." 

They scanned the tables. They all seemed to be full of students or, rarely, adults. Even the group of teachers sitting around a small table had no room. There didn't seem to be any empty chairs at all. 

"What about that booth?" said Luke, pointing to a corner. "There's a spare three inches on the end, there. Perhaps if we asked Hermione to sit on someone's lap, you could sit on mine." Wendy laughed, but it was the only empty seat in the entire pub, and mingling with the students might not be so bad. She followed Luke through the tables, annoyed when some students crowded around a table didn't pull their chairs in to let them pass. Wendy retaliated by not picking up the green and silver scarf she accidentally knocked to the floor as she squeezed through. 

"Hi, you guys," said Luke jovially. "Is it alright if we join you?" 

The six students -- Wendy was pleased to recognize them as Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna, though she didn't know their last names as well -- exchanged startled glances with each other. They all then looked at Harry. 

"All right, then," he said finally. The six kept glancing at each other uncomfortably. 

The silence seemed to make a vacuum around their table that the noise of the room couldn't impinge upon. There seemed to be a lot of ankle kicking going on, because people kept breathing in sharply, twitching, and wincing suddenly. Luke's smile was plastered uncomfortably on his face. Wendy could practically hear his heart thumping. He hated this kind of situation. 

Wendy was about to say something stupid and inconsequential to break the ice, but Harry suddenly blurted, "We've got something important to tell you." 

Judging by the small movements Hermione and Ron made, and Harry's sudden wince, those two had just kicked him. 

Harry, however, plowed on, lowering his voice. "We just overheard... oh, all right, Hermione and Ginny here... just overheard Malfoy and his gang talking about having something ready by Halloween." He looked meaningfully at them, as though expecting them to react. 

"So?" said Luke blankly. "An assignment, a project?" 

"Malfoy was also talking about you two," said Ron. "And when Malfoy talks about someone, it's not good news." 

"Especially if his father is involved," said Ginny. 

"How did you decide that?" said Luke disbelievingly. 

The six of them exchanged exasperated looks. "Malfoy's father is _evil,_" Harry said, as though that explained it all. 

Luke and Wendy both raised their eyebrows promptingly. 

Ginny spoke in a quiet, controlled voice. "In my first year, Malfoy's father tried to use me to bring You-Know-Who back. He put Tom Riddle's diary in one of my spellbooks-" 

"Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort," Harry added quietly. Neville hastily had to grab a napkin and wipe up his spilled butterbeer. 

"and the diary turned out to have some kind of shadow of Riddle in it. When I wrote in it, Riddle fed on my emotions, and almost came back to life. If Harry here hadn't killed the basilisk and destroyed the diary..." She trailed off. "Has someone told you about the Chamber of Secrets?" 

"Yes, I heard," said Luke, while Wendy nodded. 

"The point is," said Hermione, "that it was Malfoy's father who started all of it." 

Luke was drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, scratching his ear, and licking his lips, while the six students waited for one of them to say something. Moments passed. 

"All right," said Wendy heavily at last, and all eyes snapped to her, "supposing Malfoy's father really does mean trouble. What do you expect us to do? Barricade ourselves inside the castle?" 

"We just wanted to warn you," said Harry. "Put you on your guard, that's all. Lucius Malfoy is slippery ... do you know how many times he's gotten off when he should have been put in Azkaban?" 

It took a few seconds for Wendy to register what Harry had said, because she was draining the last of her butterbeer and focusing on licking the foam off the cup. But it did eventually connect. 

She suddenly choked. "Tell me," she said, once she could breathe again, trying to sound casual, "is Lucius a common name in -- around here?" 


	9. Do You Wanna Dance?

**Chapter 9: Do You Wanna Dance?**

Wendy and Luke hurried up to the castle as soon as Wendy had cleaned the butterbeer off her sweater. 

"Where's Dumbledore's office?" Wendy asked, staring around the Entrance Hall. 

"Um... I'm not sure," Luke confessed. "I've only been there once, and it was back in August; and now it's October, so undoubtedly the stairs will have changed or something." 

"That's so annoying," Wendy sighed, sinking down on a large pedestal holding a suit of armor. "Magic is all very well and good, but I like my buildings to stay where they're put." 

Luke knew Wendy was just letting off steam, that she was nervous and jittery, but at this moment he had to agree. 

He sank down next to her and rubbed her knee. She put her elbows on her knees, rested her chin on her fists, and frowned. "Should we just start searching?" she asked. "Maybe if we think about it hard enough, we'll find it." 

Luke was about to say that it looked like that would be their only option, when the front doors opened and an unknown wizard entered the castle. 

Luke looked up and had to stifle a snort. 

The man was wearing a pin-striped cloak and a lime green bowler hat. He was short, portly, and nervous, and they watched as he peered around the Entrance Hall as if orienting himself. He took off the hat and held it by the brim, rolling it around and around. 

He suddenly spotted Luke and Wendy. "Hallo," he called cheerfully. "Visiting parents, I presume?" 

Luke wondered why the man wasn't introducing himself. Was this someone he ought to know? "Uh -- no," he said, as Wendy shook with silent giggles. He stood up; the two men met in the middle of the hall and shook hands. "Luke Navarra," Luke said. "You are --?" 

The man squinted at him thoughtfully. _"I,"_ he said, "am Cornelius Fudge." 

"Nice to meet you, Cornelius," said Luke. 

The man frowned. "Navarra," he muttered. "Navarra... I can tell by the accent that you're from the Colonies --" 

_The Colonies?_

"-- but I don't believe I've heard that name. Navarra... Navarra... You're not, by any chance, related to the Navarinis of Italy? Or the Navarens of Holland?" 

"Uh.. no." 

"I'm sorry," said Cornelius, his smile firmly fixed, "but who are you, then?" 

"I'm one of the professors," said Luke, completely confused. "And who are you?" he asked. He heard Wendy splutter and cough. She must be loving this conversation. The British could be so dense, sometimes. 

Cornelius jumped backwards. "Good God," he said. "You're the Muggle." 

Luke decided that he didn't like this man. "Yes," he said shortly. "I'm a Muggle, and I'm a professor here. And who are you?" he asked again. 

"Well, of course you wouldn't know," said Cornelius, a mask of understanding sliding over his shocked face. "I am the Minister for Magic." 

"Oh," exclaimed Luke. "Very nice to meet you, Minister," he said. 

"And who's that -- that woman?" asked the Minister, looking around at Wendy as though she was some kind of dangerous beast that had been let into the house. 

"This is Wendy, my girlfriend," said Luke. 

Wendy obligingly got up and came over, smiling and holding out her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Minister," she said warmly. 

The Minister didn't take her hand; he was too busy staring at the two of them. 

"Um," he said, rolling his bowler hat in his hands. "I have a meeting with Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster, you know ..." 

"We know who he is," said Wendy in a strained voice. She appeared to be biting her tongue. 

"... I ought to go." And with one last terrified look, he pushed past them up the marble staircase. 

"Come on, stop laughing," said Luke irritably to Wendy. "He's gone to see Albus, right? Let's follow him." 

They set off up the marble staircase. If the Minister heard them behind him, he didn't give any indication of it, and they arrived at Albus' office just in time to hear him say, "Canary Cream," to a gargoyle, which sprung to life and jumped aside. 

"Cool," said Wendy, as they crouched beside an ugly statue. "That's the coolest use of magic I've seen." She grinned at the spiralling escalator. 

"Pretty neat," agreed Luke. 

"Should we follow, do you reckon?" asked Wendy. 

"You've turned British," said Luke. 

"What?" 

"Do you reckon? That's so British." 

"Whatever. Should we follow?" 

"Yeah." 

They cautiously approached the gargoyle. It was pretty ugly, Luke thought. "Shall I?" he asked. 

"Be my guest," said Wendy, stretching out her hand elegantly. They giggled. 

It felt _good_ to be silly with her; to forget why they were here and about the small man in the pinstriped cloak who had shown them such animosity. 

"Canary Cream!" he intoned in a deep voice, and Wendy giggled even harder. 

The gargoyle jumped aside and they climbed the steps. 

At the top of the steps, there was a door with a knocker in the shape of a griffin. Luke was about to knock when Wendy held up a hand, saying, "Shh..." 

"...Muggles, Dumbledore! Really!" Cornelius was saying. "Standing in the Entrance Hall!" 

"They are teachers, Cornelius," said Dumbledore calmly. "I have given you many reminders of how much influence the Ministry may have over my school; these two people are my choice for the subject of music." 

"But... Dumbledore... what if the students decide to jinx them... and what about the Statute of Secrecy? I could have you arrested for it --" 

"Ah, but Cornelius, you had your chance in August, and it is now October. And they're managing fine." 

"You told me there would be one Muggle, just the one, and now there are two -- what happened? Where did she come from?" 

"Severus brought her; she was rescued from a Death Eater attack." 

"Oh, so now we're saving Muggles?" 

Dumbledore's voice became cold. "We are always helping those in need, including, and especially, Muggles. Wendy was attacked by Death Eaters as a sign of opposition to Luke's appointment, and brought to the school by Professor Snape. As it is not safe for her to return to the United States -" 

"Dumbledore, why couldn't you have found a witch or a wizard -- why Muggles? Why? They know nothing about our world, about our ways." 

"That is precisely why I hired a Muggle. He has not been indoctrinated with our ways and beliefs. He is new to magic, and will appreciate music's power far more than any witch or wizard possibly could." 

"Do the students know?" Cornelius asked snidely. 

"Many of them know." 

"And what do they think?" 

"I have not heard any objections, either from parents or students." 

"Really," said Cornelius, in frank disbelief. 

"Really." 

Luke raised his eyebrows at Wendy. "I knew there was prejudice against Muggles, but their own Minister for Magic!" he said quietly 

Wendy shook her head disbelievingly. 

"But -- standing in the Entrance Hall, Dumbledore," pleaded Cornelius. 

"They have as much right to stand in that hall as I do, Cornelius." Dumbledore said coldly. "Luke is a Hogwarts teacher; Wendy is his assistant professor and is doing just as much as he is. It's a huge job, and they're doing extremely well at it." 

"But -- but... but, Dumbledore!" 

"Cornelius, do you have any other business to discuss with me? I have other things I would like to be doing." 

"I -- but -- you -" Cornelius spluttered. 

"Cornelius?" 

There was a pause. 

When Cornelius spoke again, it was in a voice too low to make out through the door. 

Luke put his arms around Wendy and rubbed her stomach comfortingly. 

"I can't believe there's such bigotry," said Wendy sadly, turning in his arms to face him. 

"Me, neither," said Luke. He kissed her. 

A few minutes later they broke apart, because Cornelius' voice was getting louder as he moved to the door. 

"Good day to you, Dumbledore," he said, sounding terse and annoyed. 

The door opened, and Cornelius Fudge walked straight into Wendy. "Excuse -" he began, but looked up and saw who it was. His face turned purple; his eyes bugged. 

"We were just coming to see Albus," said Luke politely from the wall next to the door, behind Cornelius. "How was your meeting?" 

"Er -- fine, thank you," mumbled Cornelius. 

Wendy was standing between him and the stairs. He looked around in a panic; Luke felt a surge of savage triumph at his discomfort. 

"We're very glad to be here," Wendy said, and Luke grinned at her. "Hogwarts is a pretty cool place." 

"Yeah," agreed Luke. "Really cool." 

"That's -- that's nice," said Cornelius. He smiled, and it looked painful. "I really ought to -- to be going now." 

"Oh, well, then I guess we'll see you later," said Wendy. She didn't move. 

Luke began to laugh silently. 

Cornelius stared at her, at the stairway, and glanced around at Luke, who arranged his features into a polite mask just in time. Finally he said, rather stiffly, "You're in my way, Muggle." 

Wendy looked behind herself, then turned back to Cornelius; Luke glowered at the portly man's pin-striped back. 

"I'm sorry," said Wendy politely, "were you addressing me?" 

"Yes," said Cornelius shortly. He seemed to have abandoned his suave veneer. 

"Funny," said Wendy, "I thought my name was Wendy -- I believed we introduced ourselves, _Cornelius._" 

"Will you please get out of my way?" Fudge bit out. 

Wendy raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Professor," he choked. 

Wendy stepped aside, and Cornelius stomped down the stairs. 

Wendy looked furious. "That ... that ... prejudiced, small-minded, thoughtless, heartless..." She ran out of adjectives. 

"Prejudiced about covers it, I think," said Luke. They spent a moment in joint annoyance. 

"Let's go in," said Wendy finally. 

They knocked and entered. 

Albus' office was even cooler than the spiralling escalator, in Luke's opinion. There were all sorts of whirring silver things, paintings of venerable looking people snoozing in their frames, and, of course, Fawkes, looking magnificent on his perch. 

"What's that?" Wendy said immediately, pointing at Fawkes. 

"Hello, Wendy, Luke," said Albus. He got up from his chair to stroke the magnificent bird. "This," he said, nudging the bird onto his forearm, "is Fawkes, a phoenix." 

"What's a phoenix?" she asked. 

"Oh, they're so cool," said Luke, laughing. "They burst into fire when they die, and are reborn from the ashes." 

"Neat," she said. 

"And," he continued, looking at Albus, who nodded encouragingly, "the're very faithful, their tears can heal, and their song -- well, you have to hear it to believe it." 

"What do you mean?" asked Wendy. 

"Can you get him to sing?" Luke asked Albus. 

"I do nothing," said Albus. "Ask him yourself. He understands humans." 

"Fawkes?" asked Luke, feeling a little stupid. "Fawkes, will you sing for Wendy?" 

Fawkes left Albus' shoulder and flew over to land on Wendy's. He put his beak very close to her face, which looked startled and amazed. 

Luke had once owned a cat with an unnerving habit of coming up behind him when he was sitting in a chair, pushing her face over his shoulder, and loudly demanding attention. It had always been startling to feel fur on his cheek and see those huge animal eyes so close they were out of focus. 

This was probably more imposing. 

"Oh, you're gorgeous," said Wendy, tentatively reaching a hand up to stroke Fawkes' feathers. 

The bird regarded her imperiously for a moment, cocking its head to one side, its eyes beady. Then it opened its beak and sang. 

Luke smiled at the expression on Wendy's face. She looked serene and untroubled, as though she could take anything the world chose to throw at her with an even pulse. 

Luke himself felt encouraged and heartened. Whatever evil might be ahead of them, they could face it. They were together, and that was what counted. 

Fawkes stopped singing. 

"Wow," Wendy breathed. "That's just amazing. I felt -- I felt so -- so brave. So encouraged. So good -- not like feeling good, I mean, but I felt so good of heart." 

The two men smiled at her. 

"Anyways," said Luke, turning to Albus. "We came up here because of something we overheard in the Three Broomsticks -- actually, because of something that Harry and his friends overheard." 

He quickly told Albus what had happened in the bar. 

Albus' face stayed calm throughout the story, though his eyes slowly darkened. 

"So what do we do, Albus?" said Wendy finally. 

Albus sighed. "Unfortunately, there is only one thing to do." 

"Go back to the U.S?" said Luke. He looked over at Wendy. Her face seemed to be caught between hope and despair. 

"No," said Albus, and Wendy's face settled into a glum expression. Did she really want to go -- he hesitated to say "home" -- back that much? 

"No," Albus continued. "You must stay. The students are only beginning to learn what they must know." 

"But why?" Wendy burst out. "You've got us here, we're teaching harmony and counterpoint and composition and history, working our asses off -- sorry, our butts off -- and all you say is that it's necessary. For what?" 

"I know it's frustrating," said Albus. "But I can't tell you the details now." 

"Why not?" she demanded. 

"Part of the magic of your teaching here," Albus explained patiently, "is that you do not know what you are doing. You cannot possibly understand the effects you are having on certain students. As Muggles, you lack wizarding blood." He paused. "I'm sorry, but this can get terribly complicated. Shall I continue?" 

"Yes," they both said earnestly. 

"Very well." Albus steepled his fingers, put his forehead on his thumbs for a moment, then looked. "As Muggles, you have non-magical blood. Your cells are ordinary. Wizards have certain -- I suppose you might call them chemicals, or nucleic acids -- certain components in their DNA that make them magical." 

The words "nucleic acids" and "DNA" sounded extremely unusual coming from a hundred-year-old wizard wearing long purple robes and a bright blue hat with big gold stars on it. 

"Because you lack these chemicals in your blood and your cells, you do not attract the magic of Hogwarts the way the students do. This school could not have been built anywhere else. Perhaps Stonehenge," he said thoughtfully. "No," he said immediately, "no, that's a different kind of magic than we teach here. The school is here because this plot of land is saturated with magic. The students learn much faster here than they would anywhere else." 

"And what does that have to do with us?" asked Wendy. 

"If you were magical, you would attract the magic of this place with your teaching. Luke, you recall what happened at Hermione Granger's placement exam." 

Luke nodded. 

"That would happen all the time with two talented wizarding musicians. The students would never learn the basics, and that is what they must learn. Each student will discover how the magic works for themselves; you cannot teach that to them." 

"It sort of makes sense," said Wendy. "But why bring us here? Why not make a new school for music somewhere else?" 

"We're in the middle of a war, Wendy," said Albus slowly and sadly. "Hogwarts is the only safe place for children, especially children who are learning to fight." 

"To fight?" exclaimed Luke. 

"Yes, to fight," said Albus. "It saddens me to say that many of them will not survive to graduate." 

"Why not?" asked Wendy, almost crying. "That's not right -- they're children -- they shouldn't have to -" 

"Of course they shouldn't have to," agreed Albus. "But the war will come to them." 

"So we have to teach them music because they're going to fight with it?" asked Wendy. "I'm sorry, but that sounds... absurd!" 

"Not exactly," said Albus, hedging. "What you are actually teaching them is the fundamentals of music. Through that, each student will find his or her particular talent." 

"That makes sense," said Luke, turning from Albus to Wendy. "I've started giving Harry Potter harpsichord lessons, because he's just so musical. Ginny Weasley is an amazing singer, and Neville Longbottom has a real grasp of counterpoint. His three-part inventions are real masterpieces." 

Albus beamed. "See?" he said. "The students will find their places. You must teach them so that they can see the options and choose." 

"And what are we going to do about the people who want to kill us?" asked Wendy. 

Luke thought she was being unnecessarily moody lately. 

"You'll just have to stay in the school," said Albus simply. "I'll ask the other teachers to keep an eye on you --" 

"Great. Guard dogs," muttered Wendy. 

"-- but keep your eyes open for anything unusual." 

"Albus," said Luke slowly, "do we have to worry about the students?" 

"The students?" 

"Are any of them going to attack us?" asked Wendy bluntly. 

"No," said Albus confidently. "They are all too young -- even Lord Voldemort will not accept underage wizards into his followers." 

"Aren't there some over seventeen?" asked Luke curiously. 

"Actually, no," said Albus. "Several of the older students who might be considered potential risk factors did not return to school this fall. The students will not harm you," he said reassuringly. "But keep your eyes open for anything unusual." 

Sunday morning Wendy had to get down to marking essays. Luke couldn't do all of them, and was very apologetic about it, but still, it needed to be done. She was lying on her stomach in front of the fireplace, the rugs pushed aside to provide a firm surface for marking errors. "Oh!" Luke exclaimed suddenly. 

"What?" asked Wendy, busily scratching red marks across Pansy Parkinson's history essay: "The Muggel Inflewins on Cherch Music in the Fourteent Senchury." 

In addition to spelling horridly, the girl had done no research whatsoever, and her writing was completely ungrammatical. If Wendy saw another incorrectly conjugated verb, she might just give the girl a zero and a "see me." 

"Oh," Luke breathed. 

Wendy looked up to see him grinning. 

"Come with me." 

"Now?" she replied, gesturing to the two-foot high stack of parchments sitting beside her. "I'm a little busy." 

"No, you're not," he said. "Not too busy for this. Come on." 

"What?" 

"You'll see." His face looked like it was going to split in half with the smile. "I can't believe I forgot about it. You just wait..." 

Reluctantly, Wendy scribbled a "please see me" at the top of Pansy's essay and set it on the stack of graded ones, got to her feet, and followed Luke out the door. 

The corridors were cold but sunny, and the sounds of students playing outside filtered in through the windows. Luke led her along the back stairways and through some tapestries -- Wendy had long gotten used to this. 

"Where are we going?" she asked, trying to keep up with him. He was positively skipping. 

"You'll see," he sang cheerfully. "You'll see." 

They were taking a route she'd never seen, and she had a suspicion that Luke was either lost, which was possible, or trying to make sure she was lost, which had already happened. 

"Luke, I've got a lot to do," she whined, following him up a twisty staircase hidden in a wall. 

"No, you haven't," he said. "This is more important." 

"Won't you just tell me?" 

"No, I won't," he insisted happily. 

Now they were in a broad corridor lit with torches, but with no windows. The portraits on the wall sniffed disdainfully as they passed. One of them hissed, but she ignored it. 

"Please," she said. 

"No." 

"Yes." 

"No." 

"Yes!" 

_"No!" _

"Yes!" 

"No, I won't!" he exclaimed. "It's a surprise." And they were suddenly in the Entrance Hall, Luke scampering across it. 

"We're just going to the classroom," she said, disappointed. 

"Well, yes," he admitted. "At first," he added, grinning over his shoulder at her. 

He fitted the key into the lock and opened the door onto the familiar sight of desks, keyboards, and music stands littered around a large, oblong room. Luke crossed the room, weaving between the desks, and came to the door at the far side. Wendy had paid no attention to it before, assuming that it led to a store room of some sorts. 

Luke paused before opening this one. "Now," he said warningly, "it's a little crowded in here, so watch where you step. And be careful if you faint," he added. 

He slid the key into the lock and turned the handle. 

"Oh, my," she said. 

The room was crammed with instruments -- keyboard instruments, brass, viols, violins, cellos, drums, all in neat plastic cases -- and was easily thirty feet on a side. If they cleared out the instruments, it would make a beautiful small hall. 

"Oh, my," she said again. 

Luke grinned at her. "I was the first person in this room," he said, "since the last music teacher left in seventeen twenty-five." 

"Seventeen twenty-five?" Wendy repeated. "You mean this stuff has been untouched for... what... three hundred years or so?" 

"Yep," he said. 

"And... and are the instruments any good?" she asked. "Have you played them?" 

"Just the keyboards," he said, stepping past her and threading his way through to a large French harpsichord with double manuals. He played a bit of a lilting piece she recognized as an unmeasured prelude by d'Anglebert. The tone was bright and clear, and the action extremely crisp on the trills and other ornaments. "But I doodled on one of the recorders and it seemed nice. The brass are also pretty new. There's been a preservation charm of some sort on the room since it was sealed up." 

"And... and the string instruments?" she asked, trying to sound brisk. "Are they any good?" 

Luke made a sound that might have been a laugh, a cough, or a choke. "Take a look," he said, gesturing, then sat down at the keyboard. He began improvising over a simple bass line. 

The cellos were all sitting in modern plastic cases lined neatly by the wall. Wendy stepped around a small chamber organ and picked one of the cases up, carried it to an open space, fetched a chair, and set about getting the cello out. 

It was a very pretty instrument, Wendy thought, if bit on the yellow side. It looked extremely new. But it wasn't new in the way factory-pressed cellos with their shiny orange varnish and two bright spots of fake aging were, it was new in a way... in a way... she couldn't describe it. 

Wendy had never seen a nice, new, cello before, and that was what this one looked like. Her own instrument, now stored somewhere in California, was a lovely old one from the late eighteenth century, by an obscure Italian maker. 

She tightened the bow -- a real baroque bow, not a copy! -- looked for rosin in the accessories pouch of the case, and rosined the bow, aware of its lightness and suppleness in her hands. Then she sat down in the chair and settled the cello between her legs. She'd have to get used to having no endpin to support the instrument. 

Luke's variations had become very boring. 

"Can you give me an A?" she said, her voice cracking a bit. 

The variations were replaced with a single A, and she plucked the A string to check the pitch. It seemed in tune; same when she plucked the D, G, and C strings. The tone was quite full, and promised much. 

As Wendy held the bow in her slightly rubbery hands, she felt as though it wasn't just Luke watching her. It was as though ghosts were waiting -- not normal ghosts, like Nick or the Fat Friar, but older ghosts, somehow deeper. The air crackled silently with some sort of electricity, and a sensation that Wendy could only describe as a windless wind swept over her. 

The first open D was rich and full, incredibly sonorous, and the movement of the bow felt like silk, even though her hands weren't up to practice. Wendy played a scale, first legato, then detached, and smiled uncontrollably at the sensations filling her fingers. 

It was better than that time she'd played Paul Katz' Guarneri cello when she'd been twelve, and _that_ had left her flying high for a week. 

She tried a bit of Bach, from the Third Prelude, and thought she would cry for joy. The bow and instrument simple skipped along the notes, making string crossings effortless even for her out-of-practice hands. For a good ten minutes she played snippets from four hundred years of cello repertoire -- Haydn, Gabrieli, Beethoven, Brahms, Dvorak, Shostakovich, though the bow wasn't the right one -- and the cello reacted superbly, with equal resonance in the upper and lower registers. 

Wendy stopped, but reluctantly. It felt so _good,_ like being steeped in a hot bath with lots of scented oils. 

"Who's the maker?" she asked Luke. He didn't answer, but she was already turning the cello up onto her knees and peering through the f-holes to try and see the label. She nearly dropped the instrument. 

_Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1716_

"Holy shit," she said shakily. "Is it real?" 

"As far as I can tell," said Luke from behind her. He'd evidently left the keyboard to stand at her back. "It would make sense, given the timeline, and Albus told me that the school's financial records show a huge order being placed to Italy for several instruments at this period. I haven't checked the authenticity of the label, but, you know, the practice of producing fake Strads didn't start until the nineteenth century. So I'm pretty sure it's the real thing." 

"Are they all...?" Wendy gestured to the piles of cases lining the walls. 

"Yeah." 

"Wow." 

She sat for several minutes, closely inspecting the craftsmanship of the cello. The lines were clean, the wood was solid and resonant, and the joints were extremely close-fitting. 

"Do you realize what a find this is?" she exclaimed. 

He nodded. "But the sad thing is that we can never show this to anyone." 

"Why not?" 

"How would you explain it?" 

"Explain what?" 

"A complete collection of Strads, in brand-new condition, showing absolutely no wear and tear, no aging. Just the violins alone must be worth several million! Even if the temperature had been ideal and the room sealed, there would have been insects, something..." 

"Not necessarily," she objected. Something was niggling at the back of her brain, some way they could explain it. It was just too valuable a find to be left in a castle in the middle of nowhere. 

"Wendy, it's just too improbable for the rest of the world to accept," he said sadly. 

No, there had to be a way, some way they could simply present the collection as is to the world and have it be accepted without question. Of course. "The Dead Sea Scrolls," she said. 

"Huh?" 

"You know, the Dead Sea Scrolls." 

He looked blank. 

"Come on, don't you remember? The scrolls, the original biblical text -- found in an urn in some cave, right? Something about the ideal circumstances to preserve the scrolls and the writing?" 

A tentative grin began on his face. "And everyone accepted it, either because they thought that the Bible would have been preserved by God, so miracles weren't such a big deal, or because they didn't understand exactly how it worked, and the scientists didn't bother to explain." 

They beamed at each other. "So it would be possible to let the world know," Wendy concluded. 

"But not for a while," said Luke. 

"No," she agreed. 

They grinned at each other conspiratorially. 

Wendy set the cello down. "Why didn't you show me to this before?" she asked, going over to open a viola case. 

He looked sheepish. "Well, uh, to tell the truth... I forgot." 

"You forgot!" she exclaimed laughingly, taking out a viola. She peered in at the label -- yet another _Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1719_. A Stradivarius viola, of which there had previously been only one very suspicous model in the world, and now, apparently, five. 

"I'm sorry!" he said earnestly. "You know, what with... the accident... and classwork, and everything. It just -- slipped my mind. I haven't had a chance to set up chamber groups, I barely was able to remember about practice rooms, and so I haven't really thought of the instruments." 

"Practice rooms?" Wendy asked. 

"The school bought several dozen clavichords and harpsichords, and set up a bunch of rooms as practice -- well, closets, they must be. Just a row of doors along one corridor." 

"Is there anything else you forgot to tell me?" she said drily. 

He turned red. 

"What?" she asked. "Is there also some collection of incredible manuscripts?" 

To her great surprise, he nodded, laughing sheepishly. "Yeah. First editions of Couperin, Palestrina, Gabrieli, Galileo... if there was a treatise written by someone, Hogwarts has it..." 

She thwacked him on the head with the viola bow, though gently. "You... you... you idiot! How could you forget to tell me something like that!" He looked so embarrassed that she had to laugh. "How?" 

"Y'know, just... busy..." 

She shook her head disbelievingly. "At least it'll keep us occupied," she said. "What with having to stay in the castle." 

"Yeah," said Luke. "I hate it, too." 

"I hope they catch those idiots soon," Wendy said angrily. 

"Yeah," agreed Luke. He sat back down at the harpsichord. "Want to learn how to improvise?" he asked. 

Wendy's eyes lit up. "Yes," she said eagerly. "You're always doing it, and I've never been able to understand how you do it." 

"All right," said Luke, smiling. "First, you have to know the bass line. I'll play it, and then you play it back to me until you know it..." 

"You wanted to see me?" A sullen-faced girl came up to her after history class, holding a piece of parchment marked with red ink. 

"Um... yes. Pansy." Wendy remembered now. The grammar-less girl. "Shall we sit?" 

Wendy wasn't sure how to start, so she took Pansy's essay and reread it. "Right," she finally said. Pansy looked at her inquiringly. Wendy took a deep breath. "How much grammar have you learned?" she asked. 

"Grammar?" asked Pansy blankly. 

_Oh, dear,_ thought Wendy. "About how to use words, about sentences and paragraphs and using language?" she asked, trying to keep disbelief out of her voice. 

"Um...I don't think I've ever studied that," Pansy said, sounding genuinely thoughtful. 

"It's very useful to know," Wendy said kindly. "Knowing the rules of grammar makes it easy to write things that others can understand. I couldn't follow a lot of the ideas in your essay," she explained. "I think that I have a book you could borrow, but it's in my rooms. Do you have a minute? I could go fetch it." 

"I'll come with you," said Pansy, who didn't seem at all upset, which was a relief. 

They walked the short ways to Luke and Wendy's rooms, Wendy gave the password, and they walked in. "Wow, this is nice," said Pansy, looking admiringly around. She peered into the bedroom. "May I?" she asked. 

"Go ahead," said Wendy, bemused. The rooms were, indeed, luxurious, and the four-poster bed with its hangings wasn't the only piece of spectacular furniture in the room. Pansy disappeared into the doorway. 

Wendy rummaged in the bookshelves for her copy of Warriner's _English Grammar_ -- Luke had left it on the fiction shelf, so it took her a minute. Pansy returned just as Wendy straightened up with the thick volume in her hand. 

"Here you go," she said. "I'm sure if you look through this, and do some of the exercises, it'll help you. If you have any questions at all, you can come to me, all right?" She smiled at Pansy, who smiled back. 

"All right," she said, clutching the book to her chest. 

"I'll see you next week," said Wendy, ushering her out. 

As the door closed, she thought she heard a giggle. Children. 

Severus usually disliked holidays, and Halloween was no exception. This year was made worse, as well, by the fact that it was to be a Ball. The students all came into his classroom chattering about dates and clothing, and every note that he intercepted, much to the terror of their authors, involved the same subjects. One note in particular had been a joy to read. 

"'Do you think Ron and Hermione will finally snog?'" Severus read slowly to his sixth-year class. He had intercepted the note as it flew between Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas, its misshapen wings flapping noisily. 

Hermione Granger went brick red and buried her face in her hands; the Slytherins in the class sniggered, and Potter glared at Snape. 

"Undoubtedly fascinating, especially considering their history," Severus drawled. "Thirty points from Gryffindor, Finnegan and Thomas, for passing notes and being pathetic at Transfiguration." 

But the couple in question was now on opposite sides of the Great Hall, apparently cooling off from another big row. Severus watched them from the High Table. Potter was talking to Weasley at one of the small tables set out around the edges, and Granger was seeking someone out in the crowd... ah, yes, the Weasley girl, Ginevra. 

Granger was now talking animatedly, with furious gestures at Ron Weasley, who was gesturing equally furiously at her while, apparently, complaining to Potter. Potter, for his part, looked like he was suppressing a smile. Severus suspected that, in the coming two years, at least one teacher would catch Granger and Weasley in a broom cupboard. While he hated the images that came to his mind, he thought he'd enjoy docking a hundred points from them. Each. Just to see Weasley turn purple. 

He turned his eye away from the Gryffindor drama to watch the Slytherins. They'd been unusally well-behaved at the ball so far, staying in their year-groups and dancing demurely. He'd broken up a confrontation between some fifth-year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, but apart from that, they were very quiet. 

Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were dancing on the open floor. Draco had inherited his father's elegance, if not his father's intelligence. Pansy wasn't very pretty, but she did wear expensive robes, and they made a classy couple. 

Some of the teachers were dancing, too -- that Muggle couple, looking out-of-place in Muggle evening dress, were dancing so close together that Severus actually had to look away. Tonks was wearing dress robes that looked thoroughly uncomfortable for her, and more than once tripped as she waltzed with Albus. 

The band finished playing, and there was a polite applause from the dancers. One of the band took up a microphone and announced in a thick Yorkshire accent that they'd be taking a quick break. Everyone milled towards the drinks tables. 

Draco and Pansy left the floor and joined their classmates. Draco looked up at Severus, his expression inquiring. Severus nodded approvingly, and walked down from the High Table to get himself a drink. 

"Evening, Severus," said a polite voice behind him. The accent told him at once it was Wendy, but he turned politely nonetheless. 

"Evening," he growled. He nodded at her, and then at Luke, who was beside her. 

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Wendy asked. 

"No," he said honestly. "I hate the holidays." 

"That's a pity," she said. 

They reached the drinks table, where the current Head Boy, a Ravenclaw, and the Head Girl, a Slytherin, thank goodness, were handing out goblets. The punch was too sweet, and Severus grimaced. But he was thirsty, so he drank. 

The Muggles took their drinks and sat down at a free table. The slit in Wendy's dress fell open to reveal a very well-shaped thigh. Severus stared at it, then looked away. 

Tonks joined Luke and Wendy, and the three young people, for that was what they were, began to talk animatedly. Severus, feeling claustrophobic, left the Great Hall in search of snogging students. Perhaps he could find enough Gryffindors to take a round fifty points. 

Wendy watched Severus leave. She felt slightly uncomfortable with Luke. He and Tonks were talking eagerly about nothing at all, leaving Wendy feeling a bit excluded. She knew she was out-of-place here, in her chic black dress with the slit going up forever and the slinky straps; all the students were wearing voluminous robes. They had varying cuts and colors, but they were unmistakably still wizard robes. Not to mention that she wasn't really a teacher, more an accidental helping hand. 

"Luke," she said, once the band had started playing again, "I'm feeling tired. I think I want to go to bed." 

"Sorry, what?" he said, turning from Tonks. 

"I said, I'm tired. I'm going to bed." 

"Oh... do you want me to come with you?" he asked. 

"No, it's okay," she said, wondering why she was saying it. "I'll see you later." 

"All right." 

Wendy wasn't exactly tired, but she felt a little giddy, as though someone had spiked the punch. Perhaps they had. She felt hot, lightheaded. 

The cool air that hit her as she left the crowded Great Hall felt very good. It played over her skin, ruffling the slit in the skirt and caressing her shoulders. The front doors were open, allowing the brisk fall air in. She stood in the doorway for a minute, letting the breeze play with her hair, remembering evenings when she was younger. The night sky and night breezes had always been friends of hers, something comforting even when cold and impersonal. This wind was the most magical she'd ever felt. 

_She was thirteen again, having just taken the trash cans out to the curb -- her parents didn't understand her, of course, they couldn't know what went on in her mind -- she wanted to be a part of something big, something grand -- the sky was huge and dark and glittery and the moon just beginning to wax -- the wind felt special, private, hers alone as she called it -_

"Miss Maurits?" said a voice. She turned. 

"Severus." 

They looked at each other. 

"You shouldn't be alone," said Severus finally. "It's not safe." 

Wendy nodded. Severus was staring at her intensely. She let him. His eyes roved over her body, but she didn't mind. Why didn't she mind? She liked it... she wanted him to look at her. 

"Is that a typical Muggle dress?" he asked. She'd always liked his voice, silky and sensual. 

"Yes," she said breathlessly. 

"I like it," he said gruffly. 

And then he was kissing her, leaning her against the thick doorjamb of the great oak front doors to the castle, his right hand seeking out that slit in his skirt, his left hand tangled in the curls Winky had so painstakingly pinned to the back of her head. He tasted thick and malty, his face was smooth against hers. Lord, he was a good kisser. The technical bit of her brain that was still aware noticed how well he modulated the tension of his lips, sucking and pulling and pressing, but then his tongue was in her mouth and she stopped thinking. 

"Will you come with me?" His words vibrated against her lips. 

"Yes." She took his hand, which had callused palms, and followed him. Her eyes were glazed, and she couldn't see where she was going. What was happening? Why was she doing this? What about Luke? Luke loved her, cherished her, wanted to marry her... but Severus was Severus; he was so elegant, so tall, so powerful, so... Severus... 

And he had her up against a door again, this time the inside of a room, his hand slipping into the slit in her dress, reaching around behind and finding more to press and caress, undoing her as well as her clothes. Then his left hand found the zipper for her dress. 

"I never thought I'd appreciate Muggle clothing," he commented softly. 

When she came to undoing the buttons on his robes, she understood what he meant. 

Tonks liked Luke. He was funny, he was just a little bit shy and uncertain, but such a great guy. And the only teacher her age for miles. Privately she thought Wendy was a bit too serious for him. 

"...to dance?" 

"Sorry, what?" she said. 

"I said, do you want to dance?" Luke asked. 

"I'm horribly clumsy," she confessed. 

"That's okay. I'm not good either. No one will notice." 

That was true, Tonks realized. The students were all making eyes at each other, checking each other out, and dancing closely. It was a slow song, so Tonks, feeling a little awkward, put her hands on Luke's shoulders. His hands went around her waist. They were very large hands. She liked large hands. 

They swayed rhythmically, sort of turning. A few couples were kissing surreptitiously, and Tonks wondered if she should stop them. But kissing was harmless. The band played another slow song after that one, and Tonks scooched a little closer to Luke, wondering if it would be all right to put her head on his shoulder. Why not? He was a good height, just a little taller than her. And they were pretty good friends. Idly she wished they could be more than friends, and then she tried feebly to squash that thought. Wendy was a nice person; Tonks wasn't going to steal her man. 

His hands shifted a little way downwards to her hips. His fingers were resting lightly a little further around to the backside. Rather nice. It had been so long since she'd been with a man. She felt a little giddy. Her hand found the back of his neck, and they moved so that their bodies were touching full length. A shudder went through her. There was a protuberance in his trousers that made her feel incredibly sexy. 

"Tonks..." he whispered in her ear. 

"Yes..." she whispered back. She'd never believed that whispers could be sexy, the way the romance novels said, but she had to admit they had a point. 

"You're not that clumsy." 

"Thank you." 

The song ended, and they went back to a table to drink some more of their punch. 

"I could use some air," said Luke abruptly. 

"I'll go with you," Tonks said. They left the hall, ignoring the students who were getting increasingly fresh with each other. 

Tonks walked a little behind him, watching the shape of his behind in his Muggle pants. Very, very nice, she thought approvingly. Oh, she'd like to touch it...and other things, too... 

In the Entrance Hall Tonks couldn't stand it any longer. "What the hell," she said, and tackled him, dragging him behind a blessedly sleeping suit of armor and kissing him. 

"Tonks!" he exclaimed, as though he weren't enjoying it, which couldn't possibly be true. "What are you doing?" 

"Don't be stupid," she said. "I'm kissing you." 

"Why?" he asked, when she came up for air. 

"Because I want to." 

Then there wasn't enough breath to speak, because he was kissing her back. And his hands... oh, those musician's hands... 

His buttocks felt just the way she thought they would, too. 

"I really like you," Tonks blurted out, and found she didn't regret it. 

"I like you, too," said Luke in a very strange voice -- low and even and extremely focused. 

A while later he said, "I wish Wendy wasn't waiting for me." 

"Hm." 

"I think it's too much to hope that she went to the library." 

"I can check," she offered. 

"Go ahead," he said, his voice slow and smooth. 

Tonks gave a complicated wiggle with her wand, which shot out a flash of purple sparks. "No, she's not in the library." 

"Damn," said Luke, pulling away. "I'd better go." 

"Wait," said Tonks. "Let me just check and see if she's actually in your rooms." 

"Where else would she be?" 

"I dunno -- just let me check." She wiggled her wand again and got purple sparks. "Nope, not there." 

"Oh. Good." They kissed for another long moment. "Where is she, then?" Luke asked, nibbling her ear. 

"Doesn't work that way," said Tonks, trying to reach his neck with her tongue. "Can't tell -- where -- someone really is --" 

"I wonder where she is, then?" said Luke. 

She could feel the moment slipping away -- oh, how she wanted him! 

"Maybe Severus kidnapped her," Tonks commented, rather desperately. "He was eyeing her earlier. Hang on -- I need my hands -" 

She twiddled the wand again, and a blue glow emerged from the tip. "Huh," she said. 

"You means she's in Severus' rooms?" 

"Yep," said Tonks. She looked up at Luke, expecting some kind of explosion, but nothing came. 

"Oh," said Luke. His eyes were slightly glazed over. Tonks was almost certain someone had spiked the punch, but that was fine with her if she got to shag this boy -- or at least snog him. "All right." He kissed her. 

"Your place or mine?" said Tonks. The mood was back, and Tonks happily welcomed it. 

"Mine," said Luke. "It's closer." 

They hurried up the marble staircase, and they didn't say much, owing to the fact that their mouths were otherwise occupied much of the time. 

"Gabrieli," he managed to said at the door. 

And the next thing Tonks heard was, _"Stupefy!"_


	10. Der Tot und das Mädchen

**Chapter 10: Der Tot und das Mädchen**

Hermione had clearly had enough.

"Will you shut up about Viktor!" she yelled at Ron. "He's just a _friend,_ Ron. We _write_ to each other. He's not my boyfriend! I don't like him that way! There's only one person I like that way and it's _you!_"

Ron stood stock still as Hermione put her hand to her mouth in horror and ran off into the crowd. He heard a snort beside him and turned to Harry. "What?" he said.

"Nothing," Harry said, fighting to keep his face straight.

"Did you -- did you know -- that she -- that she...?" Ron tried to ask.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Spit it out," he said.

Ron couldn't say it. He couldn't believe it. He felt completely embarrassed and happy and annoyed and shocked. Whatever. He cast around for something to say.

"It's just like her to wait until she's completely annoyed with me to tell me," he complained, gesturing towards Hermione, who was looking for Ginny. No, he didn't want to talk about it. Why was he talking about it? He wanted to talk about Quidditch. Yes, Quidditch. "I mean, she could have said it before, couldn't she? She could have told me a long time ago... fourth year, last year..." Damn, he was still talking about her.

Harry didn't say anything, which was probably wise.

Ron then experienced one of those "self" moments, as though he had just fallen into his body. He woke up and looked around at his life and realized: _Hermione liked him._ She didn't like Viktor Krum, she liked him. _Him._ Ronald Weasley, sixth-year prefect, Gryffindor Keeper. Not Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and Triwizard Champion for Durmstrang. _She liked him!_

Blimey.

He'd botched it two years ago. And she'd nearly died last year. The time to stand around and wait was over.

"I should go talk to her," he said, starting to get up.

"No," said Harry, speaking finally.

"Why not? I should tell her... tell her..."

"No, give it a day."

Ron wasn't too sure that Harry's advice was good, considering his history with Cho, but sat back down. Maybe Hermione would be too angry to listen and would just turn him into a slug -- not that he could blame her. The Vicky joke had been getting a little old.

The rest of the ball took far too long, but at least Snape had disappeared for the evening. There were a lot of kissing couples towards the end of the evening, and Ron felt sorry for any who would be discovered in broom cupboards. Wendy and Luke were gone, too... practically married, they were. No guesses to what they'd be up to. Tonks had left, too, but that was a pity, because she was so much fun to talk to. But McGonagall, Hagrid, Dumbledore, and the rest of the teachers were still there, sipping punch and keeping sharp eyes out on the students.

The students were taking advantage of the dim lighting to retreat to the furthest recesses and snog each other senseless. Perhaps Ron wasn't remembering correctly, but he was pretty sure that there hadn't been so many kissing couples at the Yule Ball two years ago. Then he thought of Hermione, and wondered what would happen if he kissed her... if she would like it... if he would be any good...

Lovely thoughts of Hermione kissing him occupied his mind for the rest of the evening. He suspected they'd last him through the night as well.

Hermione wasn't in the common room when Ron and Harry arrived at Gryffindor Tower after the ball, nor did they see her at breakfast the next morning. Harry thought Ron looked extremely anxious, and couldn't blame him. This was one thing that had been simmering for years, and all he could say was that it was about time.

"Did Hermione tell you where she was going?" he asked Harry after breakfast, when they returned to the common room.

"No," said Harry. "I haven't seen her since last night."

"I need to talk to her," Ron said anxiously. "I just _need_ to."

Harry kindly kept his smirking to a minimum. "I could check the map," he offered.

"Could you?"

"Yeah. Hang on, I'll just go get it."

Harry ran up the stairs to the dormitory and rummaged in his trunk for the Marauder's Map. He tapped his wand to it and muttered, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good!", and the familiar map of Hogwarts appeared. Harry walked slowly back down the stairs, scanning the map for Hermione's dot.

As soon as Harry had returned to the fireside, Ron practically pounced. "Where is she?" he asked, leaning over Harry's shoulder.

"Out by the greenhouses," Harry said, pointing to the dot. "But there's something else... look here --"

But Ron left, intent on talking to Hermione, and Harry was alone with his confusion.

He knew the teachers didn't have to stay inside the grounds all the time, but it was rare on a Sunday for them to be out. Yet there it was. Both Nymphadora Tonks and Luke Navarra weren't anywhere -- but Wendy was, and she was... Harry stared at the Map. She was in Snape's room... or was that Wendy's name? He couldn't quite tell, they were so close together. Yuck. He didn't want to think about that.

But Tonks and Luke were gone. How strange. Maybe they'd gone to Hogsmeade together. But why would they leave Wendy behind? And what on earth was she doing with Snape? Actually, if you looked at the map, it was pretty obvious that they were...

"Eww," he whispered, and firmly closed the Map, reaching for his Potions book.

Ron and Hermione reappeared in the common room about an hour later, looking very flushed and shooting happy little glances at each other. "You found her," Harry commented as Ron sat down in an armchair, and Hermione skipped up the girls' staircase.

"Yeah," Ron said, grinning lopsidedly after Hermione's vanishing legs. "Yeah, I found her."

"We'd better do our Transfiguration homework," said Harry, realizing that the last thing Ron would care about at the moment was a few absent teachers.

  
Wendy awoke slowly, feeling incredibly sated, but slighly headachy. Her body felt stiff and sore from a night of almost endless sex. Oh, it had been good... a tangle of skin and sensations floated through her brain, which was only half awake.

She opened her eyes and experienced a moment of disorientation. The duvet was the wrong color. And the sheets were silk. They didn't own silk bedding.

Wendy sat up, suddenly remembering every detail of last night, and the early morning, and the later morning.

Severus.

The spot beside her in the bed was empty, which, she supposed, simplified things. But where was Severus? What were they going to do?

She'd slept with another man.

Oh.

What would Luke say? Wendy took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling her eyebrows rise. Things would work out. They would; they had in the past with other men... sort of. Things had to work out. They just had to.

What was she going to do about Luke? She loved him, she really did, and the sex wasn't bad. But last night, with Severus, had been unbelievable. It had never, ever been like that with Luke. They'd never passionately struggled against each other, trying to reach the top together; they'd never whispered words of encouragement in each other's ears; they'd never been so communicative about what was good and what wasn't.

She should go find Luke. He was probably very worried about her, and hopefully not too angry. Wendy was suddenly very angry with herself. She must have been drunk, or drugged, or charmed last night. What on had she been thinking?

What she would do was this: she would get dressed, find Severus, thank him for the enjoyable night, and go and confess everything to Luke and beg his forgiveness. Girding her loins mentally, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and looked around.

Where were her clothes? Her terror ebbing slightly, the corners of her mouth twitched as she remembered Severus' comment about zippers, and her subsequent difficulty with his hundreds of buttons. There was a long black bathrobe hanging from a hook on the wall; she put it around her and went in search of her dress.

She came around the doorway to the living room and saw Severus sitting on the couch, his head in one hand and a mug covered with the other. He didn't hear her come in. Wendy watched him for a moment as he sat incredibly still, as though paused in thought.

Finally he sighed, as though he'd come to a decision. He took his hand off the mug, drained it, set it down, and unfolded himself from the couch. He turned and saw her.

She caught a flash of intense emotion on his face, but it was so brief she couldn't identify it before it was replaced with a cool mask.

"Wendy," he said tonelessly.

"Severus."

"You should go back," he said. "It's past eleven."

"I suppose I should."

They watched each other for a long, interminable moment.

Finally, Wendy said, tentatively, "I had a really good time."

He nodded jerkily. "Good."

"Good?" she said disbelievingly. "That's all? _Good?_" He was silent. "Not, 'Oh, yes, so did I?' Not, 'I'm glad?' Nothing? Just _'Good'_, like that's what you expected?"

"Yes," he said. "That's what I expected."

A sudden rush of anger swept through her. Never in her life had someone treated her like that. It was as though she was supposed to feel honored at the sex, as though she should be pleased that he had deigned to screw her. She abruptly understood what it meant to have your blood boil, and to see red.

Her dress was lying in a heap on the floor by the door, and she went to get it, but Snape moved to stand in her way. She couldn't get around him without childishly dodging past. Damn him.

"Damn you," she said to his expressionless face. "Damn you and your arrogance. What sort of spell did you use on me, eh? What charm did you need to get me into your bed, Snape?" He didn't meet her eyes. "Because you're such an arrogant son-of-a-bitch that I doubt you could have ever gotten me there without one. Pretending to be concerned about me -- bringing me potions -- testing my nerve endings -- all you really wanted was to get into my pants, didn't you? Had lots of wet dreams about me, didn't you? Jacked off thinking about me, didn't you? That's what you said last night. Oh, yes, I remember last night. Every detail, everything you said, everything you did."

Severus finally looked up at her. He didn't blink as he said, "_I_ didn't use a charm."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she said angrily, hearing his emphasis on the first word. "Someone else did?"

"Yes," he said. "The students."

"Oh, really?" she said with a humorless snort. "You expect me to believe that? That because I'm a lowly Muggle, I'll believe anything about magic? Why on earth would the students want to bewitch me to go to your bed? Why?"

"I don't know," he snarled, his temper rising. Good, Wendy thought savagely. She could use an argument. "All I know, you ignorant Muggle," he went on, "is that I wouldn't have gone for you like that without an enchantment."

"That's a lie," she said flatly. "'Wendy, I've dreamed about this for nights,'" she quoted at him, and had the distinct pleasure of seeing him flush. "You wanted me, and last night you got me, and it made you happy."

"There was something in the punch," he spat, recovering. "An Amourousness Additive."

"A what?"

"Amourousness Additive," he repeated angrily. "It increases lust and libido."

"You expect be to believe that there was a love potion in the punch?" she guffawed. "Not a love potion," he corrected her, sneering. "An Amorousness Additive." "Whatever. Who would put that into the punch, anyway?"

"Why should I know?" he said. "Some Gryffindor, no doubt, hoping to get into a girls' knickers."

They glared at each other.

"You should get back to Luke before he goes to the Headmaster in search of you," Severus said coldly, flinging open the door for her and finally stepping aside.

Wendy bent and picked up her dress. Then, acting on a split-second decision, she raised the hand not holding the dress and smacked him as hard as she could across the cheek. He didn't even turn his head or put his hand to his cheek, he simply stood there, unmoving and unmoved. Wendy marched out of the room.

The door shut behind her and she realized that she was standing in the corridors in her bathrobe, carrying her dress from last night. And to get to their rooms, she'd have to cross the entrance hall.

She turned and immediately pounded on the door.

"What?" said Severus' voice.

"I am not going to parade around the corridors in my bathrobe," she said. "This is your fault. So open this door and let me use your fireplace to get back with at least some shred of decency."

To her immense surprise, the door opened. Severus' face, with one cheek still red, was completely immobile, his posture stiff.

He stood aside, gesturing her in. "Be my guest," he said coldly. "I'm surprised you even know how to use the Floo, you _Muggle._"

Wendy ignored the comment, went past him, found the pot on the mantelpiece, and threw a pinch in. The flames turned green. She'd never actually used it before; Luke had explained it, but Wendy desperately didn't want to lose face in front of Severus. Oh, she was furious at him.

Nervously, she stepped into the flames, aware that Severus was pretending not to watch her while he tidied up the room. The flames tickled a bit, actually; they were warm but not hot.

"Luke and Wendy's rooms!" she called.

She had a glimpse of Severus' face as it was whipped out of sight. He looked a little lost and longing underneath all the anger.

What had she done?

The fireplace spat her out into her and Luke's living room. She got to her feet, looking around nervously. Now she had to face him, and explain everything. She prayed for strength.

But the room was empty. Wendy padded over to the bedroom -- it, too, was empty. In fact, the bed looked as if it hadn't even been slept in. She collapsed onto it and cried.

What a mess.

"What is the meaning of this, Lucius?"

"My Lord, I -- I had hoped you would be -- be pleased to -- to hear my plans-"

"No, I am not pleased. _Crucio!_"

There were screams of pain, wild shrieks of agony. After a minute, they stopped. "Now you will tell me _why_ you have brought me a completely random witch and a Muggle? Two people of no consequence?"

Tonks' consciousness was returning far too slowly. She needed her wand -- she couldn't feel its comforting bulk in the usual pocket, and she didn't dare squirm, not with an unknown number of people in the room. And, judging by the high, cold voice, and the liberal use of Unforgiveables, she was in the same room as You-Know-Who. Merlin.

_No, okay. Just breathe, Tonks m'girl. This is what Auror training is all about._ Something clicked inside her, pushing down her fear. She waited, trying to judge her surroundings.

"My Lord, I beg of you to hear my whole story before pronouncing judgment upon me --"

"You mean you don't want me to curse you while you are speaking. I cannot promise that, Lucius, you know that." The voice was indulgent. "But you may continue."

"My Lord, please understand, I do this for my son. He is sixteen, as you know, and eager to join our ranks."

"Yesss..."

Tonks risked a peek with her eyes. She was facing a blank wall. No, not entirely blank. Kingsley's voice came back to her: _What do you see, Tonks? Don't just look at something once. Investigate._ Okay.

It was a stone wall, with a crack leading diagonally down one of the blocks near the floor. The joining was crude, the blocks rough and unfinished. There were some stains on the floor, possibly blood, possibly other bodily fluids. It was cold, though at her back she could feel some source of heat -- a fire, perhaps. There were at least two people in the room, Lucius Malfoy and You-Know-Who.

Wait. Lucius Malfoy was supposed to be in Azkaban. Either he had escaped, or... She cut off her line of thought, because it made her far too scared.

There were two people in the room. If there were others, they were standing still enough so that Tonks couldn't even hear the rustling of their cloaks.

"Draco wished to prove to me that he was capable of --"

"Do not lie to me, Lucius. _You_ wished to prove he was capable."

"Indeed, My Lord, I misspoke."

There was a high, cold laugh that made Tonks' neck hair stand on end. "Clever, clever Lucius. You do know what to say, do you not? Continue."

Lucius was speaking in a low, pleading voice. "I wished to prove that he could join our ranks, that sixteen was not too young an age. Together -- and I speak truly, My Lord, as you must see -- we devised a plan to rid Hogwarts of those horrible Muggles that Dumbledore allows there."

"Yes, I recall Severus' report -- a Muggle teaching music. Disgusting. I had thought the Muggles had forgotten the old ways of music."

"This one, apparently, knew some of them. And when we attacked the woman, she was rescued by a local wizard."

"Yes, indeed, I remember that. My memory is not poor. I suspect your memory of that failure is not poor, either, is it, Lucius?"

There was a silence.

"No, My Lord, it is not poor. If I may continue?"

"Yes, go on." You-Know-Who's voice sounded bored. Tonks kept listening, trying to wriggle her hands free of the ropes which constricted her. How mundane! Ropes! They ought to have used a jinx -- then she could have gotten free, even without her wand. She wriggled carefully, but they were tied tight.

"When the woman came to Hogwarts, it appeared a perfect opportunity to get rid of both at the same time. When Dumbledore announced the Halloween Ball, Draco commented to me that the Muggles would probably be disgustingly affectionate with each other during the dancing -- they're Americans, as you know, My Lord," Lucius spoke the last few words quickly, as though to make no doubt in You-Know-Who's mind that he knew his master's intelligence. There was a small chuckle. "Continue."

"When Draco commented this to me, I thought how convenient it would be if we could kidnap both of them, in the throes of distracted passion-"

"You have a lovely way with words, Lucius."

"Thank you, My Lord -- if we could kidnap them at the same time. We simply had to make sure that they were distracted enough. Draco brewed an Amorousness Additive -- he has a talent with Potions -- and slipped it into the punch."

"Spiking the punch, Lucius? How childish!"

There was a sharp intake of breath, then Lucius kept speaking. "Unfortunately, it would appear that the Muggles were not as faithful to each other as we expected ..."

A boot toe nudged Tonks. She heard a grumble from Luke as he was supposedly kicked.

"Pansy Parkinson, Draco's friend, learned the password from the female Muggle. The two of them waited inside the Muggles' rooms shortly after...er...'spiking' the punch, and Stunned the two people who arrived."

"And your son was not intelligent enough to check who he'd stunned before using the Portkey?"

"Draco -- Draco was distraught, naturally, to learn that he'd made an error, My Lord, and begged me to help. He suggested that perhaps we could kill the Muggle anyways --" _No!_ Tonks thought. "-- and torture the witch for information."

"We could do that," said You-Know-Who slowly. "It has been a while since I obtained information that way."

"Of course, Master."

"But I have all the information I need, Lucius. Our spies in the Ministry, our spies at Hogwarts, and a peek into Harry Potter's mind every so often. What more could I need?"

All the spies he needed? That arrogant bastard.

"You think so, Professor? Perhaps you would like to stand up?"

Oh, Merlin, he was addressing _her._ You-Know-Who was talking to her. She'd thought too loudly, and he was a skilled Legilimens. _He's just the meanest Death Eater,_ she told herself firmly. _Nothing else._

Hands seized her, turned her over, and put her on her feet. She swayed slightly. Then she saw You-Know-Who and took a step backwards.

His face was white as chalk, bloodless, with red slits for pupils. He was tall, thin, with pale hands that were twitchy and moved like insect legs. He was currently sitting in a chair as though it were a throne, with a sinister smile curving his thin lips.

"The Dark Lord welcomes you to Azkaban Fortress, Professor. Do introduce yourself."

_Rule number one: Don't speak._

Lucius Malfoy slapped her hard across the face. "What's your name?"

Of course, he wouldn't recognize her: her hair had been short and purple the last time he was in the Ministry, snooping around the Auror cubicles, and now it was long and black. She'd also subtly changed her face for the ball, to make it a little older, to give her authority over snogging couples. Score for her. _Tonks: 1, Bad Guys: 0._

"Speak!" Malfoy demanded.

_Rule number two: Don't speak._

"Lucius, Lucius, it does not matter what her name is. She is a teacher at Dumbledore's school, that is all we need to know. Let's see if we can deduce her subject? McGonagall, the old prune, is still teaching Tranfiguration-"

"Flitwick has Charms, Sprout has Herbology," supplied Malfoy eagerly.

"Trelawney has Divination, of course."

"Hooch for Flying, Sinistra for Astronomy," continued Malfoy, as though he were reciting a list from memory, "that revolting old fool Humperdinck for Muggle Studies."

"Professor Vector still teaches Arithmancy, and Typicus has Ancient Runes."

"Hagrid teaches Care of Magical Creatures, despite my attempts --"

"Yes, yes, of course, Lucius," the Dark Lord said impatiently. "The only vacancy left is then Defense Against the Dark Arts."

_Tonks: 1, Bad Guys: 1._

The Dark Lord crowed with laughter. "Professor Defense," he said, bowing to her, "perhaps you would like to _test_ me?"

Rule number three: Don't speak.

"Give her her wand, Lucius." Lucius roughly thrust the piece of wood back into her hands. Nothing had ever felt so good.

_"Expelliarmus!"_ cried the Dark Lord.

She ducked instinctively. _"Stupefy!"_ she shouted, only she aimed it at Malfoy, who, not expecting an attack, crumpled to a heap.

_Tonks: 2, Bad Guys: 1._

The stone room rang with You-Know-Who's high, cold laughter. "Oh, you play well, Professor. Evening out the odds, I see."

Tonks looked around quickly. The room was small, with one door leading out to -- somewhere. Probably guarded. No windows. No furniture, apart from the chair, and that was on the wrong side of the room. If she could get to it, she'd have some cover.

Luke was still lying in a heap on the floor, bound. He looked unconscious. As far as Tonks knew, Stunning Muggles was extremely bad for them. It took them several hours to wake up on their own; if Enervated, they stayed groggy for quite some time.

What was she going to do to get them both out of here? Her only hope was to try and keep them alive long enough to get out of the room. She couldn't hope to take down the Dark Lord single-handedly. She knew the Unforgivables -- all Aurors did these days -- but so did the creature facing her. And he was much more skilled than she at using them. In addition to that, You-Know-Who had said that they were in Azkaban, which meant a very difficult journey back, even if she did escape.

In the moment that she had all these thoughts, she rolled sideways, constantly moving, never a standing target for his continued curses.

_"Crucio! Imperio! Expelliarmus!"_ he shouted in a string.

Jets of red light shot at her, missing her by inches.

_It doesn't matter that it misses you by inches,_ said Kingsley's slow voice in her head. _What matters is that it misses you._ She'd never before appreciated it so much.

Could she make a Portkey out of something and get them both out of there? But if there were wards, the time would be wasted, and they'd be vulnerable. Not worth it.

Still trying to move chaotically, Tonks blindly shot her own variant of the Jelly-Legs Jinx, and was surprised to hear a cry of surprise. She'd scored a hit! Unless he was faking it. Continuing to roll, she tried to see what was happening with him -- sure enough, he was wobbling around, his entire body turned to jelly.

_"Accio_ Luke!" she cried. Luke's body flew through the air and landed in her arms. Merlin, he was heavy. She had only a few seconds while You-Know-Who figured out the countercurse.

_"Alohomora!"_ she said.

The door flew open.

_"Mobilicorpus!"_

Luke's body rose a few inches into the air, as though it were on strings.

There was no one outside the door, a small blessing. Tonks ran for it, ran as fast as she could down stone corridors and stairways, wincing every time Luke's body thumped into something. She didn't have time to wake him up; she had to get out of here. Maybe they could swim. That's what Sirius had done.

The thought of Sirius gave her hope. He'd managed to escape from here. Granted, he'd been an Animagus, but she was a trained Auror. If she couldn't get out of here, then she wasn't worth her title. She shivered. It was bloody cold! In fact, it was getting colder and harder to breathe. The lights were getting dimmer.

She turned a corner and stopped in her tracks. Facing her was a towering, hooded dementor, breathing in its rattling breath.

Tonks summoned with all her might the thought of getting Luke out of here and back to Hogwarts, then cried, _"Expecto Patronum!"_

An enormous silver eagle shot out of her wand at the same time that Luke fell to the ground. Obviously she couldn't keep up both spells at once.

He woke up and moaned. "What's going on?" So Muggles could come out of the Stunning Spell under extreme physical duress.

Her Patronus stood guard over her, blocking the dementor, but it took a lot of focus. "We've been kidnapped by You-Know-Who," Tonks said quickly, panting slightly, "and I just got us out of his throne room, and now there's a dementor trying to suck out our souls."

"A what?" he said. "Why is it so cold? Why can't I see? What's doing this? What's a...a... dementor?"

"Muggles can't see dementors," she explained raggedly, as a second one appeared behind the first. "They suck all the happy thoughts out of you."

"I feel... so horrible," he groaned.

"Don't worry," she gasped. Her Patronus was flapping its wings hard, as though trying to blow the two -- no, three -- dementors away. "We'll get out of here." _I hope,_ she added silently.

The corridor now echoed with the sound of running feet. Death Eaters.

Tonks' Patronus died as her spirits plummeted. The dementors moved closer, bending down. The nearest one reached up to lower its hood, the sleeve of the robe falling down to reveal a scabbed, rotting hand.

Tonks stared up at it, stiff with fear. _The dementor only lowers its hood to administer the fatal Kiss..._ recited a voice in her head.

"It's the Muggle and that professor!" shouted a voice from some distance. "Clear off!" he shouted at the dementor. "Clear off, I say!"

The dementor paused, its skeletal hands on his hood.

"You heard me! Move along!"

A wisp of silver vapor appeared from behind, making the dementors back off. They turned and left, their cloaks trailing on the ground. Luke stirred fretfully on the ground, wimpering.

Tonks stared at him and tried to think fast. He had no defenses. Logically, he was a liability, and Moody would have yelled at her to leave him behind, but he couldn't -- they'd kill him.

She hesitated just a little too long.

"We've got them, Master!" cried one of the Death Eaters.

"Good. Get rid of the Muggle," said the Dark Lord.

Tonks had just enough time to understand what it meant and scream, "NO!"

But too late. _"Avada Kedavra!"_ cried the Death Eater.

Luke looked up just as a beam of green light caught him squarely in the chest. There was a rushing sound, as of a large amount of air moving along the corridor, and then he fell, still and stiff, his eyes open and empty.

"Albus, have you seen Luke today?" asked Wendy nervously at dinner.

She'd wandered around the school all day, hoping and dreading running into him, wondering if she should stay in the rooms and wait, or go search him out in case he was sulking. The students themselves were keeping to their common rooms and to the library, doing homework that they hadn't done yesterday. A few had ventured outside, but the wind was so strong and cold that they came back in quickly.

So, no Luke. Not in the library, not in the classroom or the instrument room, not in their rooms. She had asked a few of the older students, all of whom simply shrugged and asked her if she'd looked in the library, or the classroom, or someplace else that she'd already searched.

So at dinnertime, during which Luke was still conspicuous in his absence, she'd swallowed her pride and asked Albus.

"I'm sorry, I haven't," he said seriously.

"I haven't seen him all day," she said worriedly. "He didn't mention anything to you, did he?"

"No," Albus replied. "I haven't seen him since last night." He looked intently at her. "Did he not return to your rooms last night?"

She looked anyplace but at him. "Actually," she mutterred, "I never made it back to my rooms last night."

"I see," said Albus, quite as if he had. "The Amourousness Additive had an effect on you, as well, then."

Her head shot up. "So it was really there?" she said.

"Indeed," he replied. "How did you hear about it?"

"Just -- around," she lied.

Albus' blue eyes caught hers, and she felt like she was being x-rayed. "So you haven't seen Luke since last night, either?" he asked.

"No."

"Hm," he said. "Pass the salt, please."

She handed it over, and the rest of the meal passed in contemplative silence. The High Table had rather spotty attendance that night. Not only was Luke gone, but Severus hadn't shown up, no doubt sulking in his dungeons, and Tonks was out, presumably with Madame Hooch and Professor Sprout, who had earlier asked Wendy if she wanted to go out to Hogsmeade for dinner with them.

Maybe he'd gone for a walk in the morning and gotten lost in the hills. Maybe he'd been injured. Maybe he was lying in a ditch somewhere with a broken ankle. Maybe...

"Will you be in your rooms tonight?" Albus asked her as the dessert course appeared.

"Uh... yeah," she said absently, sighing heavily and taking a ritual bite of the chcolate cake. It tasted like cardboard and blood, and she put the fork aside, reached for her napkin, and covertly removed the bite from her mouth, squashing it in the linen.

Albus put a withered hand on her arm, and she looked up at him.

"Don't worry, my dear," he said gently. "We'll find him."

Wendy blinked furiously and bit her lip so hard she thought it might bleed, but the tears came nonetheless. She mutterred a goodnight to Albus and fled as sedately as she could from the Hall.

If something horrible had happened to Luke while she had been... had been... _with_ Severus, then she didn't know how she could forgive herself. If he had stormed off away from the school in anger, and gotten hurt... The guilt threatened to consume her, and how could she not let it?

"Gabrieli," she said to the wall, which opened. She stumbled inside and collapsed on the couch, her face screwed up, trying to breathe calmly. She couldn't face it. What if... what if... Her mind kept turning over all sorts of horrible situations, because she couldn't imagine that he would avoid her so skillfully during the entire day.

She sat with her head in her hands for a very long time. The clock on the wall ticked endlessly, and the fire crackled, but its warmth didn't go past her skin. She wriggled her feet in the thick carpet and noticed idly that her toenails needed cutting. She froze at every footstep that passed outside, but none of them paused, none of them were accompanied by a knock on the door. It was absolutely unbearable.

At one point she reached behind her to the crocheted afghan Minerva had kindly provided them and clutched it to her, trying to cry, but she wasn't to make the tears come.

If this were an American city, she would have called a hospital by now to check if he'd been brought in; but this was the wilds of Scotland and there wasn't an ambulance for several miles, just hills and hills and more hills.

She waited, and waited, and waited. After a while she lay down on the couch, pulling the afghan across her knees and shoving a cushion behind her head. If -- no, _when_ Luke came in, she would hear him and be able to greet him. How, she didn't know. But she would be waiting here.

"Miss, please wake. Please, please wake up, Miss," a squeaky voice said in her ear while something tugged at her sleeve.

It was as though someone had pulled a switch. Wendy woke up completely and suddenly, her breath coming fast. "Luke?" she asked wildly, staring around.

"No, Miss, it is Winky." The house-elf tugged again at her sleeve. "It is half-past eight, Miss, and you must teach classes. It is Monday. The students must learn."

"Luke -- Luke's not back?"

"No, Miss," said Winky sadly. Wendy's breathing slowed, and she felt very cold. "Professor Dumbledore is searching, though, Miss, so you is not to worry. He is sending Winky to tell you to teach this morning. He is telling Winky that the students must learn."

Classes... Luke's classes. Wendy sat up very unsteadily and ran her hands through her hair. She had to take Luke's classes. "Please, Miss," said Winky. "You is teaching today, yes?"

"Yes, Winky. You can tell Albus that I'll teach today." Something inside her solidified and went numb. It was like performing, like auditions -- no matter what happened, there were expectations to meet. "Could you bring me something to eat, something I can eat quickly?"

Winky disappeared with a _pop_, and Wendy set about changing her clothes and making herself presentable. She rummaged in Luke's desk, feeling strangely unreal at the sight of his handwriting everywhere, found his lesson plan, and gathered up the books and notes she'd need. Did she have all the worksheets for the classes? All except for the afternoon classes.

Winky popped back in, carrying a tray with, bless her, a buttered crumpet and a cup of tea that was just the right temperature.

"Winky, you're the best," said Wendy.

Winky looked extremely pleased.

"Can you get me copies of these -- a hundred each -- for the afternoon?" Wendy handed over a sheaf of papers, which Winky took, disappearing with another _pop!_

Wendy never knew how she got through the morning. The absence of Draco Malfoy and a few of his friends made the history lecture much simpler -- idly she wondered what had happened to them, then decided she didn't care. Whenever anyone asked her where Luke was, she simply lied to them that he had to go and visit a sick relative back in California. For all she knew, that was where he had gone. She'd never considered that possibility, she thought, almost brightly. Maybe he had gotten an owl from Davitt suddenly, and forgot to leave a note...Locking away the part of her brain that told her it was too unlike Luke, she tried to think of that possiblity more than the other, extremely unpleasant ones.

Lunch was almost bearable. Albus must have told the other teachers that Luke had disappeared, for all of them gave her sympathetic looks -- except, of course, for Severus, who didn't look at her at all, and ate his shepherd's pie efficiently and emotionlessly. Even Professor Sinistra, who'd been incredibly disdainful of Luke for many days, and had ignored Wendy for at least a week after her arrival, came up to her as she left the table and whispered, "I'm sure it will be all right, child."

Wendy looked around at the High Table, remembering. Tonks had been with Luke when she'd left them at the ball Saturday night. Perhaps Wendy could ask her... but she wasn't there. Had she left early? Come to think of it, Wendy hadn't seen Tonks at all since the ball.

A wild thought escaped her brain before she could squash it: _Maybe they eloped._ This was so ludicrous that she snorted into her pumpkin juice. Where was she, though?

She turned to Quivisianthe Sprout, who was sitting beside her. "Qui," she said, and the woman turned. "Have you seen Tonks today?"

"No," said Qui through a mouthful of potato. She swallowed. "She doesn't have any classes today. Why?"

"Just... just wondering."

Wendy went back to her own potato, no longer hungry.

The strangest note appeared in Hermione's bag at dinner on Monday. "Meet me in liberry at sevven. Pleeze be aloan. Wont hurt yu."

Apart from the horrific spelling, the handwriting also puzzled Hermione. She didn't know anyone whose e's had that particular slant. And why would they ask her to be alone? Most people who knew her knew perfectly well that she preferred to be alone in the library, as Harry and Ron only distracted her.

Well, she was planning to be in the library that night, anyways, so if whoever sent the note wanted to talk to her, she'd be there. But she'd keep her wand close, nonetheless.

After dinner she told Harry and Ron that she was off to study. They grunted and continued blathering about Quidditch. Ron remembered just in time that he was her boyfriend now, and pecked her on the cheek before she left. "I'll come see you later," he promised. She shouldered her bag and left the Great Hall.

It was about half past five when she reached the library, so her favorite study cubicle was free. She wondered if it would be possible to get Madam Pince to reserve it for her, as some of her research was starting to get rather heavy, and a few of the books were too large to fit into her school bag.

Hermione carefully emptied the contents of her bag onto the table, neatly stacking her assignments in the order she wanted to tackle them, and laying her quill, inkpots, and blotter around the edge of the work area. There was the History of Magic essay that she had to finish first, because it was due Wednesday, then the Arithmancy equations to work out for Thursday, a Potions recipe to write, also for Thursday, some Charms to practice, although she had to wait until she was back in the common room to do those, because it would disturb the quiet of the library, and an essay for Music to do, as well as those annoying worksheets.

Hermione's general work ethic was to get the hardest things done first, unless something was urgent, or unless she had something annoying to do, in which case that went before everything else. So, sniffing slightly, she pulled the worksheets for music theory out from the pile and laid them before her.

"Write out the following scales, using key signatures: A melodic minor, C# harmonic minor, D natural minor, and F harmonic minor."

Tedious, tedious scribbling of the quill.

"Write out the following triads, without key signatures: E diminished, F augmented, C# major..."

Scribble, scribble.

"Analyze the following chordal passage." She analyzed it.

Scribble, scribble.

It was dreadfully dull work, but as her quill tapped the notes, arranging them into triads and labeling them, she knew that it was important, somehow, in the cosmic scale of things. It was the same feeling she had when working on Arithmancy. It annoyed her immensely: she desperately wanted this subject to be useless, yet it persisted in being so laden with magic that an incorrectly spelled chord leapt off the page at her, announcing itself as _wrong_.

The worksheet was finished. Hermione looked at her watch. Ten minutes to six. A little over an hour until her anonymous correspondent appeared. Should she do the History of Magic essay or the History of Music essay? The ethic said to do the History of Music essay because that would be the most annoying, but as she wanted to be in her usual spot when seven o'clock rolled around, and she knew the History of Magic section extremely well and would not spend too much time hunting for books, she chose that one.

_Explain, using at least six feet of parchment, why the Wizengamot decided in 1848 to avoid involvement in the numerous civil wars on the continent at that time._ Well, that was easy. She made a quick list of the books she would need. Humphreys, Bagshot, of course, Mulligan, perhaps Foxworthy, the English translation of Bleiswijk if no one else had it -- who was she kidding? No one else _ever_ checked it out -- maybe there would be some information in the sixth chapter of Beaumond...

She gathered the books and returned to her cubicle. For a long time, the only sound was the scratching of her quill, the riffling of pages, and the tearing of parchment as she worked out paragraphs in sections.

"Granger?"

Hermione, who was refilling her quill, knocked over the ink pot in surprise.

"Sorry," grunted the voice. "Didn't mean to startle you."

She turned around in shock. It was Crabbe. He stood, his hands in the pockets of his robes, hunched over, as though trying to hide his bulk.

"What do you want?" she said, silently praying that he hadn't sent the note.

"Did you get my note?" he rumbled.

Oh, dear. "Yes," she said.

"I thought you'd probably be here, but I wanted to make sure."

Hermione just looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

Crabbe lowered his voice. "Do you think you can put some sort of spell around us so no one can overhear?"

She looked at him suspiciously.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Promise. Here, take my wand." He held it out to her.

She took it gingerly. "To be quite honest," she said staring from the wand to him, "it's not your wand I'm worried about."

He smiled. He looked quite friendly when he did it, quite approachable. More like an overgrown brown bear than an overgrown thug.

"I can understand that," he admitted. "Look," he said, his voice so low it was more of a rumble, "it's really, really important, but I don't want anyone to overhear us. I promise I won't hit you, or hurt you, or anything. Wizard's honor."

To her surprise, his wand gave a small _crackle_ in her hand, and shot out a few sparks. Wizard's honor, indeed. He was serious.

"All right," she said grudgingly, and cast a Muffling Charm on the surrounding two feet of space. She cast another charm to divert attention in case of passers-by, and pulled Crabbe closer into the cubicle. It was a very tight fit.

"You noticed that Draco and Pansy are gone, right?" he began.

She nodded.

"They screwed up pretty badly with Mr. Malfoy, so he's not letting them come back to Hogwarts, for when Dumbledore figures it out. Although I think Draco might be back for Quidditch --"

"But what did they do?" she interrupted.

"They put the Additive into the punch," he said.

"The -- oh, I see," she said. "I knew there was something in the punch! Look, why don't you start at the beginning."

"All right," he said slowly, and thought for a long moment. "Draco wants to join his father," Crabbe said finally. "You know he's a Death Eater, right?"

"Yes. -Why are you telling me this?" she asked. "You're one of Malfoy's friends -- won't he be mad at you?"

"He's not my friend," Crabbe growled. "Let me finish the story first, Granger."

"Hermione."

"Hermione. All right." As Crabbe continued to tell of how Malfoy had come up with the idea of kidnapping Luke and Wendy as a show of Dark power, brewed the Amourousness Additive, and slipped it into the punch because the Head Girl was a Slytherin and let them spike it because she thought it was just vodka, Hermione's jaw slowly opened in disbelief at how much sense it made.

"And so they put the Additive into the punch to make everyone a little... well, you know..." he blushed, "and make sure that Luke and Wendy went back to their rooms a little early. Pansy and Draco were waiting in there, Stunned them, and Portkeyed them out."

"Except that Wendy wasn't there," Hermione said breathlessly. "Oh, it all makes sense now."

Crabbe nodded. "They got Tonks and Luke instead."

Hermione nodded slowly, mulling it over. But -- "How did you find all this out?" she asked Crabbe.

"All the dorms have fireplaces down in the dungeons," he explained, "and Draco Firetalked in to ask for his trunk to be sent along. I was the only one there, so I sent it to him. He looked pretty shaken. Said his father wasn't letting him or Pansy leave their place, but that everything was okay."

"You should go to Dumbledore!" Hermione said. "Tell him --"

"No," he said abruptly.

"Whyever not?" she asked. "He could help; if Luke and Tonks have been kidnapped by Malfoy --"

"But it isn't just Malfoy," said Crabbe meaningfully.

Hermione gasped. "He's taken them to You-Know-Who?"

"Yeah," he said, looking uncomfortable.

"But -- but we should do something, tell someone-"

"No."

"But -- they could be found, they could be rescued-"

Crabbe was shaking his head.

"Why not?"

He looked even more uncomfortable. "Look, Granger, being in Slytherin isn't so good these days -- even Dumbledore can't help all of us. My father --"

He broke off. Hermione heard the footsteps too -- someone had rounded the corner of the cubicles. It was Ron. He'd be very suspicious if she suddenly appeared in her cubicle after he'd already checked them. She immediately cancelled the Muffling and Diversion Charms.

"There you are, Hermione!" he said. "What are you doing, Crabbe?" he asked suspiciously.

Crabbe looked at Ron, then back at Hermione, and threateningly cracked his knuckles at her. "I'd watch my step if I were you, Granger," he said.

Hermione's heart sang. He wasn't nearly as stupid as people thought. A miserable speller, perhaps, but not an absolute idiot.

"Clear off," said Ron, reaching for his wand.

Crabbe snatched his wand off the table. "Remember what I said," he growled at her, as he cleared off.

"What did he want?" Ron asked, bending to give her a kiss.

"Just being Crabbe," she said noncommitally. "You know how they are." Hermione wasn't quite sure why, but she didn't want Ron knowing about the conversation. If Crabbe didn't want Dumbledore to know, and for the life of her she couldn't figure out why, then she wasn't going to let Ron know.

She tilted her face to kiss Ron back.

Ron was sufficiently distracted to let the matter drop.


	11. I'm Torn

**Chapter Eleven: I'm Torn**

Harry wondered if he ought to go to Dumbledore.

It was late Monday evening, and Harry sat in a comfortable armchair by the fire in the common room, waiting for Ron and Hermione to return from the library—or whatever broom cupboard they were snogging in. Merlin knew he'd want someplace more cheerful than a cupboard to kiss his girlfriend in, whenever he got a girlfriend.

His eyes wandered up and around the common room and found Ginny's. She was bent over an essay, but her eyes looked up and met his. She grinned, and Harry wondered what it would feel like to kiss her...

No, he didn't wonder anything of the sort

He wondered if he ought to go to Dumbledore, because the Marauder's map was still empty of Luke and Tonks.

Harry had been looking at the Marauder's Map whenever he could get a chance, ever since he had noticed that the two professors weren't showing. Perhaps Dumbledore would find that information useful.

He usually didn't like going to Dumbledore, especially not after last year. If only Dumbledore had told him earlier about the Prophecy, about the fact that Voldemort would try to lure him there, then he wouldn't have been fooled by that vision of Sirius...

He still couldn't think about Sirius without feeling hot and sick with guilt. Fortunately, there was a lot to occupy his mind. For instance, should he go to Dumbledore? These were teachers missing, after all.

But then again, Dumbledore knew of Harry's map, didn't he? Hadn't he heard about it from Barty Crouch, Jr? Surely, if Dumbledore had wanted to know what it showed, he would have asked. And for all Harry knew, Luke and Tonks could be on assignment for the Order or something.

He knew that it was extremely unlikely that Dumbledore would allow a Muggle into the Order, but it was also extremely unlikely that Dumbledore would allow a Muggle to teach at Hogwarts, and that had already happened. Maybe the two teachers' absences were meant to go unnoticed, and if that was the case, it had certainly not happened that way. "Visiting a sick relative in California?" Yeah, right.

Well, Dumbledore would probably have things under control, and, even if he didn't, Harry had a suspicion that Dumbledore, like Mrs. Weasley, would push him aside, telling him that this was a matter for overage wizards.

But it was extremely odd.

--

Hermione wondered if she ought to go to Dumbledore.

"What's on your mind?" asked Ron.

They were propped up together in a small broom cupboard, and Ron's hands were currently exploring the boundaries of Hermione-space, in a very pleasurable fashion.

But because Ron's body was so attuned to Hermione's own, that meant he had undoubtedly noticed when her attention wandered off their current activities.

"Nothing's on my mind," she said quickly.

Wrong answer.

"That's not true," said Ron at once. "You've always got something on your mind. Even when I'm kissing you --" he sounded a little sullen, "-- you're always thinking about lots of other things."

"Sorry," she apologized. "I'm tired."

"Oh, do you want to go to bed?"

Hermione couldn't help but snort.

"Sorry!" said Ron, sounding aghast. "That sounded wrong—I didn't mean—you know I—oh, bloody hell," he swore.

Hermione laughed. "It's okay," she said, rubbing his upper arms. "I know what you meant. Yes, I'm tired, no, I'm fine here."

"Oh. Good, then." Ron sounded relieved. "Can I—er—continue?" he asked awkwardly.

"All right then," said Hermione, feeling a little shy.

Ron's hands found her soft thigh bits and squeezed, and Hermione felt a pleasurable tingle shoot through her.

Her mind, though, couldn't help but wander back to Crabbe in the library, and what he'd said about Luke and Tonks. Should she tell Dumbledore what she knew? That would probably be a good idea.

But if Harry found out what she knew, he'd probably tell her not to go to Dumbledore; Harry would most likely want to mount a rescue operation at once, which would be one of the stupidest things he could do.

But Dumbledore probably already knew, Hermione realized, as Ron's tongue tried to invade her mouth. She parted her lips obligingly, and decided that it wasn't that unpleasant, really.

Dumbledore had spies everywhere—and this was Death Eater activity, so Professor Snape must have known about it months ahead, and they were already preparing a rescue operation.

Hermione let her brain wander back to Ron, whose hips were grinding in tight little circles against her own. She'd never really thought of that gesture as anything but lewd and licentious, but with Ron it was quite enjoyable, you know.

--

Wendy wondered if she ought to go to Dumbledore.

There was a very small part of her that knew, irrefutably and inexplicably, that Luke was ... never going to return. She couldn't bring herself to even think the word, it was so unbelievable.

All day Sunday and Monday she had been expecting him to appear around a corner, or to come trudging into the Great Hall, happy to see her, but annoyed that he'd had to walk ten miles in the rain to get there, or appear bruised and bleeding in the Hospital Wing, with Poppy fussing over him like a mother hen. He would appear, he simply had to.

She wondered if Dumbledore would know anything more than she knew already.

No, Dumbledore would come and tell her if—when—anything was heard.

But part of her admitted that he would never come back, and while the rest of her still hoped, still prayed every second for Luke to reappear, it was also assailed by an inexplicable knowledge that the smaller half was correct.

A girl could dream, couldn't she?

--

Vincent Crabbe went to Dumbledore.

He had done a lot of soul-searching in the past year and a half, ever since the end of the Triwizard Tournament. He'd watched Draco and Greg becoming more and more cruel, more and more unfeeling. Something inside them was going dead, and Vincent didn't like it. He was losing his friends, and it was all because of You-Know-Who.

Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Goyle, too—they had sent their sons frighteningly direct letters about their expectations. _Over Christmas break, I expect you to kill at least two Muggles, to gain the Dark Lord's approval,_ had read Draco's. _Hex a mudBlud,_ had read Greg's.

_Vincent, darling, keep your grades up in Charms, because your Auntie Mabel's nose hair needs trimming, and she wants you to do it,_ had read his.

His father was a Death Eater, but his mother wasn't, and seemed to refuse to admit that anything could possibly be amiss, that Crabbe Senior simply worked long hours and had a dangerous job as a Floo Network repairman, and that his stint in Azkaban last summer had simply been a misunderstanding. So his father kept darker business out of letters, and hadn't mentioned anything to Vincent about following in his footsteps.

But Vincent had watched his mother grow more and more brittle and cheerful over the past two summers, as though convinced she could hold the world off with a happy little laugh. He'd also seen something else in her eyes—a sadness, a growing fear. She worried for him, she always told him that she wanted the best for her son: _Even if you're not the brightest bulb in the lot, you're the nicest one, and you're mine,_ she would always say.

He loved his mother. He couldn't disappoint her.

And besides, Professor Luke had been really, really nice, and someone that nice couldn't possibly deserve to die. Vincent knew that nice and good were different—Mr. Malfoy could be nice sometimes, but he wasn't good—but in this case, Professor Luke was definitely nice _and_ good.

First, Vincent had had to go to Professor Snape, whose loyalties he didn't understand completely. What did, "You can trust me either way?" really mean? But Vincent had asked Professor Snape if he could arrange a meeting with Professor Dumbledore, and Professor Snape had simply escorted Vincent straight up to the Headmaster's office without even asking what the meeting was about.

He had seemed pleased, though, and walked away down the hallway with an expression that was rather less grim than usual. So, now that Vincent was ensconced in a cushy chair in Professor Dumbledore's large, round office, Fawkes the phoenix resting on his lap, a cup of tea on the desk in front of him and a lemon drop melting in his mouth, he explained. "You see, Professor," he said, "I'm just ... a little confused."

"I understand," said Dumbledore. "These times are confusing for all of us. But go ahead, tell me what worries you."

Vincent thought for a full minute, sorting out all his observations from the past year. Dumbledore waited patiently.

"I'm worried about my friends," he said at last. When Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, Vincent continued. "Their fathers are telling them such horrible things—telling them what they should be doing, telling them what they're expected to do when they all turn seventeen."

He met Professor Dumbledore's eyes and felt like he was being turned inside out.

"And Draco especially," Vincent went on. "His father sends him horrible letters, and together they've plotted awful things."

Here it came. The moment of truth. If he told Dumbledore what he knew, there would be no going back. Could Dumbledore actually protect him from the other Slytherins if they ever found out? Would Professor Snape tell them that Vincent had gone to see the Headmaster? Would he be labeled a sneak?

He hesitated, and Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Vincent," he said gently. "Anything you tell me will not leave this office."

"Professor Snape?" he asked.

"Professor Snape is discreet," said Dumbledore. "He is very protective of all his students, and he will not put any of you in danger."

Well, that was about as encouraging as it could get.

Vincent shifted the melting lemon drop to the other side of his mouth. "I know where Professor Luke and Professor Tonks are," he whispered to his hands.

There was a horrible silence in the office. The fireplace crackled loudly; the birds outside trilled, but inside the office, everything was quiet. Even the portraits had stopped snoozing. Vincent looked up quickly at the paintings, and saw a portrait of Phineas Nigellus giving him a very appraising look.

"And how do you know this?" asked Dumbledore.

"Heard Draco and Pansy talking about it, Professor," he said. "The two of them sent for their trunks on Sunday—they're at their parents'. Will they be all right, sir?"

"I cannot say," confessed Dumbledore. He looked old and worried, though thoughtful. "Vincent, please, tell me everything you know."

"They're in Azkaban," said Vincent at once. "Professor Tonks and Professor Luke, I mean—they meant to get Wendy and Luke, to kill the Muggles, you know—Draco's father wanted him to kill Muggles over Christmas."

Vincent confessed everything—his worries for his friends, the letters, the Additive, and then the mixup.

When he finished, he realized that one of his hands was clutching a bunch of Fawkes' feathers, and that the bird was crying.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to it. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"Phoenix tears have healing powers," said Dumbledore. "If Fawkes cries for you, he wants to heal you."

Heal him? Of what? He didn't have any bruises or cuts.

"Sometimes injuries are on the inside, Vincent," said Dumbledore gently.

"Please, Professor," he said, "can you tell me what you're going to do to help Professor Luke and Professor Tonks? And can you get Pansy and Draco out of danger?"

Dumbledore's expression turned grave. "I cannot tell you what we will do to help the two professors. That is my business," he said, though there was no censure in his voice. "And as for Miss Parkinson and Mr. Malfoy—they will have to make their own decisions. I believe you have made the right one today, and I hope others will follow."

--

It was past midnight. Ron and Hermione still weren't back, and Harry was very nervous. He could feel Voldemort raging somewhere, despite his improvement in Occlumency. It was extremely distracting, especially because he had an essay for Snape still to finish: _The Uses of Knarl Quills in Dragon's Blood-Based Potions._ He could just imagine it: _Sorry, Professor, Voldemort was torturing someone and I couldn't focus, so that's why my essay isn't done._

The images were getting stronger and stronger—he could almost see the outline of a dark room, and a writhing figure, if he closed his eyes. He tried to make out more about the figure, knowing full well that he really ought not to be doing this.

Something snapped suddenly, and he was abruptly fully inside the vision.

Damn, he thought. Snape's going to kill me.

"Two days, Professor," he said in a high, cold voice, using Voldemort's mouth. "Two days, and you insist you know nothing of the Order of the Phoenix?"

Harry realized with a start that the tortured figure was Tonks. Where was Luke, then?

"I know nothing!" said Tonks defiantly, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

"Of course you do," said Harry/Voldemort impatiently. "You're an Auror, you fought at the Ministry last June, you must be part of Dumbledore's Order. Tell me what you know! _Imperio!_"

Harry caught a glimpse of Tonks' face, struggling to fight off the Imperius Curse, before he was sucked inside the link.

It was the oddest sensation: Harry was part of Voldemort's mind as it tried to submerge Tonks' will. He'd never felt such power, such raw, dark energy. It was elating, it was ecstatic. He was a master of the world, he could do anything!

Maybe he could find out where Luke was.

No sooner had the thought struck him when he was assaulted by a vivid memory, from two perspectives: Luke's body falling down lifeless, eyes cold.

Two perspectives? Tonks' and Voldemort's? Had Luke been killed? Or was this just a happy, imaginative vision on Voldemort's part?

He was aware of the struggle between Tonks and Voldemort—one mind wrapping itself around the other, like the tentacles of the giant squid attempting to squeeze the life out of a small fish. Could Harry help Tonks fight it off? How much information could Voldemort learn using Imperio? Would Harry be submerged, too, if Tonks failed? "Harry?" said a voice. "Harry?"

"Harry!" shouted someone else, from very far away. "Oi! Harry! Wake up!"

It was like being pulled out of a vat of treacle. Hot treacle. And part of him was stuck to the bottom. "Ow!" he said, rubbing his scar and blinking up at Ron and Hermione.

He was on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, his feet in danger of being singed by the fire.

"What were you doing, Harry?" asked Hermione anxiously.

"Nothing," he lied quickly, scrambling back up into his chair. "Just dozed off, that's all."

"Dozed off enough to slip out of your chair?" Ron asked disbelievingly.

"It was nothing," he insisted. "Really, I just fell asleep. Have you finished Snape's essay?" he asked Hermione, ignoring Ron's snort.

"Harry," said Hermione earnestly, "you were doing Legilimency, weren't you?"

"No, I wasn't!" he said.

"What did you find out?" asked Ron. "Has You-Know-Who taken Luke and Tonks?"

Harry sighed. "Yes," he said finally. "He's got them somewhere, only I think—I think Luke's dead."

"What?" gasped Hermione.

"How?"

"No idea," said Harry. He rubbed his scar, which was prickling. "I just caught a memory of him falling, but it was from - from two perspectives, so I think—I think it was from both Voldemort and Tonks."

"You need to go to Dumbledore," said Hermione at once.

"Yeah, mate," said Ron.

"No," said Harry. "I'm not going to Dumbledore. He probably already knows."

"But—"

"I'm not," insisted Harry. "I need to finish Snape's essay," he said. "Did you two do any research or did you spend all your time snogging?"

Hermione flushed, and Ron said, flustered, "Hey, that's not on."

"Then help me with my essay instead of nagging me, all right?"

--

Wendy knocked nervously on Severus' office door.

"Come in," he called curtly.

She opened the door. Severus was sitting with his chair back on two legs, his feet propped up on his desk, marking essays. "I know it's late," she said apologetically, "but do you have a moment?"

His chair fell to the ground with a thump when she spoke, and a few essays flittered about the room, liberally slashed with red ink. His face went from savage to startled to closed in a few heartbeats.

"I—Yes, a moment," he said.

Wendy walked over to stand by his desk. There was no chair, and the only other place to sit was on the desk, which was inconveniently covered with parchment. Damn the man for being so deliberately unapproachable. "It's about Luke," she said.

"What about him?"

"He's still missing."

"Obviously."

Ouch. "Yes, obviously," said Wendy, determined to keep her temper. "I was just wondering if—if you knew anything—anything about it?"

"You mean do I know if the Death Eaters have him?"

"Yes."

"No."

A beat passed. "No?" Wendy asked. "No, they don't have him, or no, you don't know anything?"

"I don't know anything about his disappearance."

"You don't?"

"That's what I said," replied Severus levelly. He retrieved his wand from his robes and waved it at the fallen essays, which neatly inserted themselves into the stack.

Wendy was going to cry, and she was going to do it loud and noisily and right in front of him, damnit.

"Why don't you care?" she said. "Why the bloody hell don't you give a damn what has happened to a human being? I don't expect you to go running off to rescue him—oh, no, that's too much work for Severus Snape—but you could at least express concern that the man I love has gone missing and is probably dead!"

"Whatever makes you say that?" he said scornfully. "He's probably just gotten cold feet about the whole magic thing and gone wandering off into the wilds. He'll send you a postcard from France in two weeks. Why on earth do you think he's dead, you foolish woman?"

"I don't know!" she ranted, her face now wet and blotchy. "It's just—just something—I have a gut—you couldn't possibly understand, could you, about connections and love and all that crap, could you? You've never loved anyone, have you?"

She'd struck a nerve, she knew it. Severus' face went very pale, and his hands crumpled a few essays. With a great amount of control, he set them on the desk and walked around it to face her. Wendy had forgotten how tall Severus was, but was reminded as he towered over her, the lines in his face very clearly defined.

He also needed to wash his hair, she noticed wildly.

"I have loved someone," he said, and her heart skipped. "But she was stolen from me by a hopeless, bumbling Gryffindor fool who thought that being rich and clever was good enough for perfection. Lily Evans could have been mine if James Potter—yes, your precious Harry Potter's father—hadn't decided to shape up and ensnare her."

"So what?" said Wendy, feeling irrational. "You failed in that. Besides, they're both dead, and we're alive, and --"

"And what? We had a momentary lapse of control—or at least, I did, and who knows if you've ever had any control."

Ooh, that was a nasty blow. "Me? Have control? About you? Why would I need control? Whatever makes you think I'd ever wanted to screw you?"

"Shall I quote to you?" he said nastily. "As you quoted to me." He put on a high, false voice. "Ooh, Severus, right there, Luke's never done that. I've wanted you since I saw you, Severus."

Wendy's face felt hot, and she was still crying, but damn it, he deserved to see her cry, if he even cared about her—Lord, she was so confused. "As you said," she retorted, sniffling and gulping, "there was that damn Additive, wasn't there? So neither of us knew what we were doing, did we?"

He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.

"I for one knew what I was doing," he said quietly. "Leave, please. I have marking to do."

Wendy blinked several times. His words hadn't really sunk in. "You knew what you were doing?"

"Yes."

"You—you knew --"

"Yes. Please, leave."

"No, I'm not going to leave, not until you explain things to me."

"Merlin's balls, woman, I can't explain it!" Severus roared, and Wendy took a step back to avoid the spittle that spilled from his mouth. "I don't know what happened to me that night, and neither, I suspect, do you."

"You approached me in the Entrance Hall," said Wendy.

"Because you were wearing that ridiculous dress with that slit that showed your thighs." He didn't quite sound scathing, and his lips were dry—Wendy could see the little cracks in them.

"It's a Muggle dress," she said defensively. "It's Italian, and very expensive."

"It was indecent."

"You should see some of the stuff teenagers wear in the Muggle world."

They were at an impasse. Severus ran a hand over his eyes, and Wendy's attention was drawn to his hair. "You need to wash that," she said.

"What?"

"You need to wash your hair."

"I bloody well don't."

"Yes, you bloody well do," she retorted. "It's greasy and oily, and it looks horrible."

"My hair is fine," said Severus. "There's no need to fuss over it—James Potter always fussed with his, and that made me so furious --"

"Why can't you just let go of Harry's father?"

"Because he won't let go of me!" Severus hissed.

Whoa, girl. This was major psychological trauma here. Serious schoolboy jealousy. "Fine, fine," she said, waving her hands in front of her. "Do whatever you want."

"I want to mark my essays," Severus said. "If you will please leave?"

"All right," Wendy conceded finally. "But—if you hear --"

"If I hear anything, I will tell Albus," said Severus. He closed his eyes for a second, and Wendy thought she saw a flicker of worry cross his face. "I—I hope things work out," he said.

Wendy nodded in thanks, and left.

Oh, she wanted Luke back. _Please, please,_ she prayed, _please, let him be alive._

--

"Get rid of the Muggle," said a high, cold voice.

God, he felt terrible—he'd been remembering every single botched audition of his life suddenly, every single moment of fear and inadequacy; he'd felt as though he could never be happy again, and then it had left suddenly, with the silver vapor and the voice shouting "Clear off!" And he'd been so relieved that he'd stopped paying attention to the oustide world, just lay there, reveling in not being horribly depressed.

A scream of horror from somewhere.

A realization. _I'm a Muggle!_

Someone shouted, "Abbracadabra," but... different.

He looked up, and the world went green. _Idon'twanttodie,_ he thought.

There was no pain.

Just a rising feeling of weightlessness as he was carried up towards the ceiling.

The world grew dimmer....

and dimmer...

and dimmer.

_No, let me see,_ he pleaded, and it was as though an **Immensity** of **Thought** indulged him and let him hover there, watching:

A woman sobbed—he hadn't known she'd cared about him so much. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said.

He tried to tell her that it was all right, that he couldn't blame her, but she couldn't hear him. He was dead.

He was dead.

That was odd.

He was dead.

This was the Afterlife, was it? Not too bad. He could hang around here for a while. Pity he couldn't interact with anyone. That Immensity was pulling him firmly upwards, but he didn't want to go.

_Not yet,_ he asked.

**But you must go.**

_Please, let me stay—I'm not finished here!_

**You must go.**

The pulling was stronger than ever, but he resisted. _Not yet,_ he insisted.

The Immensity pulled away. **I'll come back for you.**

So now he was still hovering above the scene below, where the woman he cared for had been pulled off his body and was struggling to get free. Her wand lay abandoned several feet away, and one of the hooded men picked it up and snapped it in half.

Rage enveloped him, and he flew at the man, forgetting about his insubstantiality. But he flew right through him; it was odd—like flying through heat. The man shuddered.

"What is it, Avery?" said another man.

"Felt like a ghost passed through me."

"Muggles can't turn into ghosts."

"I know. Felt like it, though."

"Probably nothing. Forget about it. Come on, the Master wants this one personally." He jerked his head at the woman, who had been peremtorily Stunned by yet another Death Eater.

_Muggles can't turn into ghosts?_ Then what was he doing?

Well, he was here, and he had things he needed to do.

--


	12. Free Falling

**Chapter 12—Free Falling**

A week passed. Everyone seemed to know that Luke wasn't seeing a relative in California, and that something horrible had happened to Tonks, but no one was quite sure what.

Luna Lovegood told anyone who would listen—namely, Neville, who was too nice to push her away—that Tonks had been abducted by the Wailing Mountain Goat Worshippers of Wales, and was awaiting rescue in a cave. "But she's been provided with plenty of food," she assured Neville.

Meanwhile, the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, was approaching. The Gryffindor Quidditch team, with two new Chasers—Ginny Weasley, of course, plus Catherine Eggers, a third-year—were training hard. Harry and Ron had been out on the pitch almost every night that week. Unfortunately, so had the Slytherins. The daylight lasted just long enough for two sets of hour-and-a-half practices but, as the Slytherins were scheduled before the Gryffindors, the Gryffindors had been lucky to get an hour to themselves, and had been forced into nighttime training.

Harry was grateful more than ever for Hermione's brilliance, and for her now steady relationship with Ron, because she invariably appeared just after sundown, imploring them to come in, and, when she invariably failed to convince them, would conjure up a handful of fireballs to light the pitch, enabling the team to practice until curfew.

The Saturday of the match dawned cold and clear, with the promise of fine weather. Wind was a bit strong, though, and Ron rattled on about compensation and equilibrium forces all through breakfast.

Harry ate his bowl of porridge, trying to ignore the pain in his scar, which had bothered him on and off all week. What was that all about? he wondered, spooning treacle onto a second helping of porridge. Was Voldemort up to some new plan? Harry realized with a jolt how exposed everyone was during a Quidditch game, out in the open, with nothing but the castle gates to protect them from the outside world. What would happen if the Death Eaters decided to attack the school?

"Harry, you coming?" It was Cat Eggers, the other Chaser. "It's quarter-till."

"What?" he said. "Oh, yeah, thanks." He swung himself off the bench and collided with Ginny, who was passing. "Sorry!" he exclaimed, reaching out to steady her arm. She was much smaller than he'd have expected, with a thin layer of softness just covering Quidditch muscles.

"It's okay, Harry," she said, finding her balance with a grin that made his mood lift.

The stands were completely full when Harry walked out onto the pitch a quarter hour later. Students screamed and sang and waved banners—mostly with Gryffindor colors on them, because Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw wanted Slytherin to lose as much as the Gryffindors did—as the team emerged onto the field.

Harry mounted his Firebolt and rocketed upward, finding a place about fifty feet above the pitch from where he could watch the general mayhem of the Chasers.

"Captains, shake hands," said Madam Hooch.

Harry noticed that Draco Malfoy was back—he'd not been in Potions that week, but, as Harry wasn't really on chatting terms with the Slytherins, hadn't bothered to inquire... or care.

Malfoy moved forward and took Ron's hand as though it were a two-week dead lark, and let go after one shake

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and tossed the Quaffle into the air. Ginny caught it and bounded forward towards the Slytherin end of the pitch.

"And they're off!" shouted a voice Harry didn't recognize.

He looked to the commentator's box and saw a fifth-year Hufflepuff he didn't know. But the game was on, and he listened as he searched the pitch for the Snitch.

"...Weasley with the Quaffle, great all-around player she is—last year as Seeker for the team, this year a Chaser, and handling that Quaffle well, passes to Katie Bell—no, intercepted by Warrington. Warrington with the Quaffle, heading for the goal—ducks a Bludger by Sloper, nice try, he's heading for goal—can Weasley do it? Tricky times last year—He shoots ... YES! SAVED BY THE KEEPER!"

The pitch erupted with cheers and Harry did a few victory rolls. He spotted a glint of gold, but it was only Ginny's bracelet. Crabbe sent a Bludger his way, which he ducked easily as Andrew Kirke came to get it. Malfoy was also circling the pitch, looking sour.

"And now it's Bell with the Quaffle, passes to Eggers, Eggers back to Bell, Bell passes to Weasley, Weasley with the Quaffle—duck, it's a Bludger! Nice save from Sloper—this team has worked hard to put itself together this year—and Weasley almost at the goal, with only Keeper Bletchley, now in his eighth year, by the way, in front. Weasley shoots —she scores! Yes! Ten-nil, ten-nil to Gryffindor!"

More cheers. The game continued. Slytherin got in two goals to Gryffindor's three more. Forty-twenty—they were still up... 

The Chasers flew wildly around in search of the Quaffle, which seemed to have a mind of its own, passing from one Chaser to the other; Crabbe and Goyle were hitting Bludgers at anything moving, including their own team; the Snitch was nowhere in sight. It was absolute mayhem. Harry loved it.

Thirty minutes passed while no one scored. Gryffindor took a penalty shot when Goyle aimed a Bludger at Ron, but, unfortunately, Bletchley saved it.

Harry circled higher and higher, starting to feel cold. Clouds gathered in the sky on the horizon, threatening rain. Wouldn't the Snitch please show up?

And then he saw it, fluttering golden against the sky, three hundred feet above Malfoy. Careful not to make any sudden moves, for fear of attracting Malfoy's attention, he drifted towards it.

  
Up in the stands, Hermione sat with Luna and Neville. She cheered with the rest whenever Ron blocked a goal, and groaned when one got through, knowing that Ron would treat her to a full replay after the game. Harry circled the pitch, at least three hundred feet up, a speck in a brilliantly blue sky scudded with clouds. She saw him pause in his circlings, then drift idly off to one side. Had he seen the Snitch? She scanned the sky, but couldn't see anything against it.

And what was Malfoy doing back at Hogwarts? He'd been gone from classes for a week; the Lavender-gossip had mentioned a few appearances in the library, in the corridor outside the Headmaster's office, or in the dungeons, but no one was really sure if these were true. Crabbe had mentioned something about Malfoy's father letting him back for Quidditch, though, Hermione recalled.

She snorted to herself; trust a family like the Malfoys to be so thickheaded about things that, even when the son botched a major kidnapping attempt, he came back to school simply to compete at a Quidditch match.

Up in the air, Malfoy dove, and Hermione expected Harry to follow him, but he didn't, just lay there in the air, drifting idly. The crowd gasped, and people began screaming at Harry, but he didn't move.

"What's Harry doing?" asked Neville. "Shouldn't he..."

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe he's faking it."

Malfoy pulled out of the dive, no Snitch in sight. Hermione understood—Malfoy had tried the Wonky Faint thingie, but Harry hadn't fallen for it. Which must mean that he knew where the Snitch was.

Malfoy evidently thought this as well, because he shot upwards towards the sky.

Harry suddenly lunged.

  
Harry lunged, but it wasn't for the Snitch.

It was for the small figure with pink hair that he'd seen materialize out of thin air in front of the castle gates. Floating beside her was a body. The figure looked extremely bedraggled and was stumbling. It had to be Tonks—he knew that hair, he knew that figure.

And then four hooded figures also materialized along the road, twenty feet from Tonks—hooded figures with cloaks and masks. They ran towards her, shooting spells, and Tonks turned to defend herself.

Something grazed Harry's elbow—a Bludger, perhaps, but he didn't care about Quidditch anymore, this was more important—as he shot towards the Death Eaters like a cannon.

They were so far away that they didn't see him coming until he was right on top of them.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!"_ Harry shouted.

Three figures fell, startled. The one remaining Death Eater turned, and a female voice he'd know anywhere began saying, _"Avada—"_

_"Expelliarmus!"_ Harry cried, and the Death Eater's wand flew into the air. _"Stupefy!"_ he shouted. He noticed that the broomstick gave him much more maneuverability, and watched with glee as Bellatrix Lestrange fell.

"Tonks!" Harry shouted. He landed with a thud and ran towards her.

She was crying, but standing up straight. "Harry," she said, in that same cracked voice he had heard in his head five days ago. "Get inside the gates... need to be inside..."

  
But where on earth was Harry going? thought Hermione. He was headed out of the pitch, Malfoy staring after him stupidly. Hermione didn't know much about Quidditch, but she did know, thanks to Harry and Ron's constant discussions, that the Snitch had limits as to how far outside the pitch and how high up it could fly.

"What the hell is he doing?" cried the commentator into the megaphone. "It's not against the rules, though, and play is continuing... Bell has the Quaffle, passes to Eggers, who... er... drops it... and Warrington catches it, heading for goal... nice Bludger shot by Kirke, and another one by Sloper—good work, boys... and Weasley catches the Quaffle and is flying off towards the other goal—you can do it, Ginny! She shoots... she SCORES!"

As the Quaffle passed through the hoop, there was a deafening metallic CLANG that reverberated throughout the stadium, making the seats tremble.

Hermione gasped with everyone else.

"What the bloody hell was that?" came a magnified whisper.

Dumbledore stood up, and all eyes were riveted on him. The stadium immediately quieted. "This game has been cancelled," he said, his voice carrying through the crowds. "Will the Head Boy and Girl, and the prefects, please lead all students back to their common rooms. Teachers, please, come with me."

Everyone groaned, and hundreds of feet clattered down the wooden risers as Hermione sought out Ron in the crowd.

"Where the bloody hell is Harry?" he asked her.

"I don't know," she said.

"We should find him," Ron said.

Hermione nodded, worried.

"Quickly, now, follow me!" Ernie MacMillan was calling to a bunch of first- and second-years, who were staring around in apprehension. "Back up to the castle now!"

Voices were calling all over, making a horrible din as students scrambled this way and that, looking for housemates, friends, teachers, and groaning about the interruption. "This way, please!" "Make way, Head Boy coming through!" "Hurry up!" "Keep moving, keep moving!"

"What's going on?" "Why did he cancel the game?" "It's like the Chamber of Secrets all over again!" "What the hell was that noise?"

Ginny struggled up to them, Neville and Luna jostling along behind her. "What's going on?" Ginny shouted over the din. "Come, on let's go."

"In a minute," Hermione said.

"Go on, we'll catch you up," said Ron.

Ginny gave them an odd look, but allowed herself to be swept along, calling, "If Harry's been hurt, you come tell us right away, okay?"

Hermione and Ron nodded, then let themselves be buffetted by the crowds streaming past, until they were alone on the pitch. The teachers had vanished—where, she didn't know.

"Let's find Harry," said Ron. "Get on."

"What?" she asked.

He had mounted his broomstick. "On the back. We'll be able to see more if we're up in the air."

"I hate flying," she moaned, but climbed on behind him.

"Just hold me tight," he said reassuringly, "and it'll be fine."

Hermione thought wildly that those words could mean something completely different under other circumstances, then hoped fervently that she lived to see those other circumstances. Then they were up in the air.

The broom felt like nothing underneath her. The Thestrals had, at least, been reassuringly solid, if invisible. But this—just a stick of wood between her legs, and the rush of air in her face, and the ground disappearing away from her.

They flew over the stands in the same direction that Harry had disappeared. Hermione clutched Ron very tightly, and hoped he was enjoying it, because she certainly wasn't.

The strangest sight met their eyes out at the edge of the grounds: a group, clustered at the gates.

A figure with pink hair, bent over a body. Harry, standing back and looking extremely awkward as the teachers swarmed around. And the gates  
The gates were shut. Hermione had never seen the gates of the school closed before. Not only were they closed, they were warded, with a huge golden web that stretched from the winged boars on either side of the gate. It glittered in the sunlight, and was apparently sticky, because trapped in it were four struggling Death Eaters.

"Oh," Hermione shouted, into Ron's ear. "I read about this in _Hogwarts, a History._ When the school detects evil intent, it can close the gates and trap the people who are planning to do harm. But someone has to invoke it, and they have to be important to the school, somehow; the book never really explains what that—" She broke off, screaming, as Ron dove sharply for the ground.

Ron and Hermione landed next to Harry. Hermione, slightly wobbly from the broomstick ride, held onto Ron's arm as she looked over to see what the teachers were doing. On one stretcher lay Tonks, talking to Professors Dumbledore and Snape. And lying on the other stretcher was Luke. His eyes were open and glassy, his skin waxy, his flesh hanging bloodless from the body.

"Oh, my," breathed Hermione. "Is he... dead?"

Harry nodded. "I think so," he said somberly. "You should have said something," said Ron. "When you saw—"

Hermione kicked him, and he shut up.

She looked over at Wendy, who was touching Luke's cheek gently, and didn't look shocked at all. Rather she looked resigned, and sad.

Snape, who had been asking Tonks urgent questions, left her and went over to Wendy. He inclined his head, and Hermione saw his hand hover tentatively at her back, then drop. Wendy just shook her head at him.

Meanwhile, Hagrid and Professor McGonagall set about immobilizing the four Death Eaters stuck to the gate, roping them and confiscating their wands. The teachers formed a procession, hardly glancing at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and headed up the sloping lawns to the castle.

The trio followed at a distance. "What was that all about back there?" asked Ron. "At the game?"

"Oh," said Harry. He looked up at the teachers, and seemed reassured that they were ignoring the three Gryffindors. "I was up high, looking for the Snitch, and then I just saw Tonks, outside the gates. And there were four Death Eaters after her. I didn't have any choice," he added defensively, as if expecting them to berate him.

"Of course you didn't, mate," said Ron.

"Harry, I'm sure you did the right thing," said Hermione. "But the gates," she said, awed, looking back at them. "What happened?"

"Tonks told me to get her inside the gates, so I pulled her through, and the Death Eaters started coming around and grabbing for their wands. I couldn't Stun them again, because both my hands were busy. I thought we were done for," he said, shaking his head. "But then Tonks said, 'I ask for help in this hour of need,' or something like that, and the gates just closed—that made the huge clang—"

"We heard it over on the pitch. It was _loud,_" said Ron.

"And when the Death Eaters charged at the gate, the winged boars came to life, and shot this sticky stuff out at them. They were trapped, and any spells they tried to shoot at us simply dissolved."

"That's incredible," said Hermione. "I mean, I knew the castle had defenses, but that—"

"Pretty wild," agreed Ron. "Good, though, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Harry earnestly. "Hang on a minute," he said, scratching at his elbow. "Something—keeps—tickling me—" Harry stopped walking, and rolled up his sleeve.

There, nestled in the folds of his bright scarlet Quidditch robes, its golden wings fluttering in its attempts to escape, was the Snitch.

"Brilliant," said Ron with a grin.

"Boys," muttered Hermione.

  
The talk in the Gryffindor common room that afternoon was whispered and urgent; everyone wanted to know what had happened after the match had been cancelled. Harry wasn't sure how much to tell people, and was forced to avoid giving definite answers until Professor McGonagall appeared in the portrait hole, looking somber.

"Professor, what's happened?"

"What was that noise?"

"What about the Quidditch match?" That came from Ron.

Hermione tutted.

"Quiet, please," said Professor McGonagall, holding up her hands. The room fell silent.

"It is my sad duty to inform you that Professor Luke Navarra has died," she said simply, and there were a few gasps. "His body was returned to the castle by Professor Tonks, who risked her life to escape from Lord Voldemort."

More people gasped, and a few screamed and fell out of their chairs at her use of the name.

"I must ask all of you not to question Professor Tonks about her ordeal. If she wishes to tell people, she will tell. And as for the Quidditch match, Mr. Weasley, I imagine Madam Hooch and I will have a discussion about it, as the game never ended—"

"Professor," Harry interrupted her, digging in his pockets, "I found this in my sleeve after... er... afterwards."

A few people laughed shakily as he handed the Snitch over to her.

"I know it's not important," he said quickly, "but it might be nice if..." he trailed off.

Her lips twitched. "I shall tell Madam Hooch, Mr. Potter," she said. "While I am not familiar with the rules of Quidditch and I do not believe it to be a priority at this time—"

"I know, but—"

"I do believe that Gryffindor may have won the match," said Professor McGonagall, with a hint of a smile. "I will talk to Madam Hooch. We need all the good news we can get, these days."

She climbed awkwardly out of the room, and everyone clamored for Harry to talk.

"Tell us, Harry!"

"What happened?"

"C'mon, Potter, stop keeping secrets!"

Harry looked pleadingly at Ron and Hermione, hoping they could rescue him, but they too were looking at him expectantly. "What—now?" he said.

_"Harry,"_ said Ginny exasperatedly, "come on and tell us. We all liked Luke—" her voice caught, "—and I, for one, want to know as much as I can about his death. If we can get revenge—"

There was a general murmur of agreement.

"So," Ginny said, meeting his eyes square-on, "spill."

Egged on by those sincere eyes, and by the murmuring, expectant crowd, Harry spilled.

He told them about spotting the figures by the gate, and dive-bombing them, then helping Tonks over the threshold of the castle. He told them about how the gates had shut suddenly, and the deafening clang that announced the sealing of the castle wards—"at least, that's what Hermione said," he added, and a few people laughed. And he told of how the Death Eaters had tried to attack him and Tonks, but been caught by the web and held there.

"Wow," said a few people.

"Wicked," said Seamus.

"It's amazing," said Colin Creevey, and as Harry obviously wasn't going to say more, the Gryffindors finally began talking amongst each other.

"You know," said Hermione, as the crowds around them dispersed, "that conversation Ginny and I heard in the Three Broomsticks—when we went to the bathroom—makes sense now."

"Yeah, it does," said Ron sadly. "I wish we'd been able to do more to help them."

Ginny sniffled, and Hermione put an arm around her. "It's just so sad," said Ginny. "Luke's—gone. Just like that. Wendy must be so heartbroken."

  
Wendy wasn't sure how she felt. The loss of Luke from her life was, to say the least, unsettling. The castle was filled with him, with shared experiences and sensations. Every corridor she walked, every meal she ate, she thought of things they'd done together, things he had said or pointed out, times they'd gotten lost together or bemoaned having to eat shepherd's pie yet _again_. She kept expecting Luke to walk through the door of their rooms... her rooms, now.

Every night that she lay in the big double bed, she lay awake for hours, twitching every time someone clattered noisly down the hallway outside, starting whenever Winky or another house-elf popped in to tend the fire or tidy up the living room. Wendy kept hoping desperately that she would wake up and discover she'd only dreamed something so horrible. But sleep would only come after hours of dry-eyed staring at the ceiling, her stomach burning with the sourness of guilt and hurt.

She'd packed up his things and sent them away with the house-elves—to disappear, to be burned, to be given away to charity, she just didn't care—the day Tonks had brought his body back.

Tonks.

The two women had shared a look as they stood over his body in the Hospital Wing—two women, both broken in spirit. _We loved him, each in our own ways,_ the look had said. Clear as daylight.

Wendy couldn't begrudge Tonks that right. And she had to be grateful to the other woman for bringing his body back, and, in a very real sense, for taking Wendy's place in what would certainly have been a fateful encounter with Lord Voldemort.

And yet that was the most unfair part of the whole thing, really. Tonks had lived to see Luke's last moment, and Wendy had been stuck screwing that lout, that waste of breath, that sordid piece of humanity, while Tonks had been struggling to save both herself and Luke from those dementors. Who was the better woman in that scenario?

Wendy felt dirty, unwashed, unclean. Unworthy of Luke, who had been a good, pure person.

If he had been so pure, why had he gone off with Tonks, though?

_Because you were occupied with Severus,_ said a voice in her head.

Tonks had told Wendy and Albus the entire story, beginning with the Ball and ending with her uncomfortably easy escape from Azkaban prison—thanks to a borrowed wand and a suspiciously sleepy guard—over a cup of strong tea in Albus' office. Neither Tonks nor Albus had made any strange remarks about Wendy's absence, Wendy's faithlessness, waving it away in a cloud of "oh, yes, the Additive" explanations.

But that just wasn't good enough, was it? Because how could an Amorousness Additive that "increases lust and libido" throw her into Severus' arms out of nowhere?

And there was the kernel of the problem:

Wendy hadn't loved Luke enough.

The thought kept her up every night, made her toss and turn, gave her nightmares of Luke. Visions where he told her that if she hadn't been with Severus, that she could have died with him and been worthy; nightmares of how he might have died, in a crumpled, bloody heap on a stone floor; and, the worst, dreams that Luke was trying to forgive her, trying to tell her he loved her anyways. She would wake up from these sobbing and gasping and reaching for something to hold but finding only pillows and empty sheets rather than warm flesh.

Albus had asked Wendy, very gently, if she wanted to take a week off before continuing to teach.

"No," she had said at once. "It's bad enough having to stay here. I'd rather be doing something useful than just hanging around."

One of the hardest parts had been writing to Luke's father, who, having gone mildly senile, was in a retirement home in Florida. She'd written many, many drafts of the letter before settling on something awkward and truthful. It was impossible to write these sorts of letters eloquently.

_Dear George,_

As I'm sure Luke told you months ago, he and I came to Scotland to teach music together at a school for unusually gifted children. Last week he was kidnapped by some local radicals who wanted to rid the area of foreigners, and was killed as a demonstration of their hatred.

It was a horrible, horrible accident, and I miss him terribly. I know you do as well.

There won't be any ceremony; Luke once told me he didn't want one. The body has been donated to a nearby hospital.

Love,

Wendy

If George was cognizant enough to understand the letter, it would suffice.

No ceremony - Wendy didn't think she could have handled putting on black and parading her grief around for the school to see. She was slightly relieved that she and Luke had once had a half-drunk conversation about how they wanted to be buried. Luke had been most clear: donate the body to science, and no ceremony.

It still left Wendy feeling somewhat at a loss for what to do, and Luna Lovegood's calm, "Oh, you'll see him again," certainly didn't help.

Wendy didn't bother writing to her parents—they wouldn't care one whit what happened to her; she had been disowned long ago, after deciding not only to pursue a career in music, but also to date a musician who had no prospects. Her father was a banker, her mother a social climber, and Wendy knew that they'd simply say, "I told you so," to any letter she sent announcing Luke's death.

She and Luke had always been somewhat alone in their relationship, and now, without Luke, Wendy was alone in her grief.

She had never experienced grief like this before, and didn't know how to handle it. It left her puzzled and hurting. Even the anger and sadness she had felt after that terrible fight with her father, and her mother's stricken face as Wendy had stormed out the front door, had barely come close to this sense of loss.

Why? she kept thinking. Why? Why me? Why him? That was obvious in the political situation, but why had they even had to get involved? Why did Lord Voldemort have to target the two of them? Why couldn't Wendy have been there, instead of Tonks? Why hadn't she gone off with him that night? The unfairness of it was staggering.

So Wendy threw herself into the work, assigning essays and research projects and composition assignments that had even Hermione Granger gasping at the workload. She began to organize performing groups—a string quartet here, a singer and keyboardist here, a madrigal group here—and gave them weekly coaching sessions. She did her best to be extremely exhausted every night, in the hopes that she could just fall asleep quickly and not hear Luke not coming in.

  
It was late on a Friday evening. Wendy hadn't been able to bear the oppressive silence of her rooms anymore, and had wandered through the corridors aimlessly until she found herself at the door of the classroom. Blinking her dry eyes, she opened the door and crossed to the instrument room.

Opening the door, she saw that the room was quite dark, except for the moonlight coming in through the high windows. She found herself groping absently for a light switch before she remembered that wizards didn't use them. The moonlight was bright enough, though.

Wendy made her way carefully across the dim room towards one of the cello cases. It had only been a month since she last played cello—exactly a month, in fact, since the night before the Halloween Ball—but it felt like a lifetime. After opening the case and getting out the cello and bow, she squinted around for a chair and carried the instrument over.

Sitting down, Wendy arranged the cello between her legs. She hoped that her body remembered how to hold a cello without an endpin to support it against the floor. Apparently, it did, though her left quadriceps felt tight.

Her fingers on automatic, she tuned. The A string—slightly flat, turn the peg, struggle against it slipping, damn, I need to fix that, why don't these wizards keep pencils around? graphite's the best lube for these things—fifth between the A and D; D is flat, too, as usual, up, down, sliding intervals between tritone and minor sixth until you hit the perfect fifth and the overtones resonate all through the body of the cello; D to G only a little off, the G peg is slippery, too, though not as much; G to C, fixed. Check the harmonics. Cello in tune.

A thought struck her, and Wendy retuned the cello, moving the A string down to a G and adjusting the D string so that there was a perfect fifth and a perfect fourth between the first three strings, an octave G and G between top and third string. She was going to play Bach's fifth suite for solo cello, even if she hadn't played it in months. What better piece to get her fingers back in shape?

She struck the opening low octave and began to play the overture half of the Prelude, with its slow scales and dotted, lilting figures. The gestures came easily, phraselets and segments of melody: a pause here, a lift there. She was rather surprised at how much her fingers remembered.

When she hit the final octave of the overture she had to retune—the strings had obviously stretched—before she could begin the second half, the fugue. She stretched her fingers and shook out her right hand, which was feeling a little stiff, especially just below the thumb. She would have to work on her bow grip.

Wendy began the fugue, slightly under tempo because she wasn't sure she remembered all the notes. The first statement danced in a stately way under her fingers... then came the second statement, in a lower voice, with double stops to remind the listener that the first voice still exists, and then a countersubject, and how could there be so many voices with just one bow and four fingers on four strings, able to play no more than two notes at a time, usually playing only one melody at a time?

Wendy was swept up in the structure of the fugue and the beauty of the music, and didn't notice anything odd until the first cadence, where the texture thins.

She wasn't sure at first if they were just in her head, and blinked several times, though she didn't stop playing. Her fingers knew the piece much better than she thought they did—or was it her fingers moving? They felt disconnected, not quite under her control—and she listened with all her might. Yes. They were there.

There were other voices, not quite cello voices, but not quite human voices either, filling in the missing gaps in the fugue, the notes that the cello couldn't actually play. She realized that this must be the Bach Effect that Luke had told her about.

Luke had told her about this.

Luke.

Wendy had to stop, but the voices didn't—they carried on until the end of the movement.

She retained enough sense to set the cello down carefully on the floor, but the bow fell with a clatter as Wendy buried her head in her hands and wept.

She wept for missing Luke, for wanting him back. She'd give anything—yes, anything—to have him back, have him beside her, holding her, kissing her, playing with her, smiling at her, playing his silly La Folia variations night and day, screwing up in auditions all the time, making oatmeal for her at six in the morning when she had early classes, knowing just where to rub her shoulders in the "cello spot" between left shoulderblade and spine that always hurt if she practiced too much, grabbing her hand like a boy and dragging her over to see something he wanted to show her...

_Keep playing,_ sprang a thought into her head. _Keep playing, and play well, and the pain will go. Promise._

She shook her head to clear it. She didn't want to play right now. She wanted Luke. Nothing else.

_Play,_ something insisted.

She wasn't sure if it was her brain or the voices, but she obeyed, and picked up the cello.

  
Severus Snape, in the midst of his midnight prowl, was already quite satisfied with tonight's tally: he had come across Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger performing experiments in human anatomy in an empty classroom—Granger's giggle carried quite far in the still corridors—and had taken a round hundred points off them. Weasley's face had turned a lovely shade of puce, and Granger had stammered stupidly until Weasley dragged her off.

Severus stalked down the marble staircase and was about to head back to his room to try to get some sleep when he heard music drifting down the side corridor.

Who was playing?

Thinking idly that it might be a student practicing, getting in some last-minute work before some rehearsal or other, Severus stalked across the Entrance Hall and pulled open the door to the music classroom. Sure enough, the noise—all right, music; he had to admit it sounded pretty damned good—was coming from the instrument room.

He strode across the dark room and whipped open the door. Whoever was in there hadn't bothered to light the lamps.

Severus waved his wand and, as the lights flared into life, said menacingly, "What do you think you're doing at this hour?"

"Practicing, Severus," said Wendy calmly, not stopping.

Severus froze. He couldn't see her face, but her voice was steady. So she wasn't crying. "I'm sorry," he said abruptly. "I thought you were a student."

She played to the end of the passage before responding. "Obviously I'm not." She tuned the cello. "Do you think you could bring me that stand?" she said, pointing to one near him that had a sheaf of music on it. "Now that someone's turned the lights on."

Severus blinked, but picked up the stand and set it a few feet in front of her.

"Thank you," she said. She stood up and stretched, then resettled herself with the cello resting on her calves.

He watched as she checked the cello's tuning, adjusted one of the strings, though there was nothing he could hear wrong with it, and riffled through the pages on the stand in front of her. Then she settled back and began to play.

Severus thought he recognized the piece, vaguely—perhaps he'd heard it on the Muggle radio. It was low and rich, slow yet elegant, sad but not weepy. Wendy kept stopping, however, and would go back and play something again, and again, and again, until it apparently satisfied her.

At one point she stopped to shake out her wrists, and Severus asked, "Do you ever play anything through?"

She started, then looked around at him. "Sorry, I didn't know you were still here," she said. "I'm practicing. It means that I don't play things through, that I fix whatever I don't like, and there's a lot to fix in the Bach." She gazed evenly at him. "Do you want me to play it through for you?" she asked.

What was going on? Why hadn't Wendy fled, or attacked him, or... Why was she being so calm and collected? The last time they had been in the same room—apart from meals, where Albus pointedly sat between them—she had screamed at him. Severus studied her face briefly. Her cheeks were streaked from tears, but her eyes, though slightly reddened, were not bright or brimming with tears. They were very level, and slightly loose, as though she'd been indulging in one of the more illicit versions of the Calming Compound. Where she would have gotten such a potion, he didn't know.

"All right," Severus said and shifted from one foot to the other. If he took a chair, would it look strange?

Wendy took a breath, closed her eyes, circled the bow around and started moving it against the strings. She played the entire piece through without stopping.

It had two parts, a slow and a fast one, and the fast one had a melody that kept coming back in different registers. The moment she started the fast section, he connected the word "Bach" with the music, because the magic in the room shifted ever so slightly, and the molecules aligned. Other voices began filling in the missing parts quietly.

Extremely beautiful, and poised. The music was, too.

When Wendy stopped, the air quivered for a minute with the final chord before resuming its usual randomness. There was still a layer of magic coating the room.

"That was lovely," Severus said truthfully. Somewhere in the course of the piece he'd come to stand nearer to her, where he could see her face.

"Thank you," she said, "but it still needs more work. I should get to bed." She sighed.

There was a moment of silence while Wendy fiddled with the bow, turning something on the end. The hair stretching along its length went slack.

"I'm sorry about Luke." Severus hadn't known he was going to say it until it came out of his mouth. They weren't quite his words, and they stood in the air in front of them, almost visible.

Wendy paused with the cello halfway to the floor, then set it down with a rather loud _thunk_, which made the strings vibrate. She winced. "You don't really have anything to be sorry about," she said.

"No," he said, "I'm not sorry for anything I did, but I'm sorry that you're in pain."

It was suddenly as though all angry things they'd ever said to each other had been swept away, leaving an almost-clean slate.

Wendy nodded and got up from the chair, picking up the cello and bow as she did so. She had wiped the strings clean, strapped the cello into the case, and returned the case to its spot next to the five others before she spoke. "Thank you," she said quietly. "It means something to me."

"Oh?"

"That—" Wendy sat down heavily on the chair she'd been using earlier. "I've just—just felt so alone—these last weeks... I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't care."

She stood up, and Severus realized he was only inches from her. It was a moment that he had only experienced once in his life, and that had been with Lily, and it had been awkward and almost playful, and there had also been an undercurrent of pity in Lily's eyes.

There was no pity in Wendy's eyes. They were dark eyes, betrayed, saddened with loss, open wide to the troubles of the world.

"I do care," he said, his voice low and rough.

He took Wendy's face in his hands—she was so thin, these days!—and brought his face up close to hers. She didn't blink, didn't flinch, didn't move away, and she held his eye contact. He could read very easily the mixture of emotions on her face: _I miss Luke, I'm lonely, I want to be loved, How can this ever be right?_

Their lips met, very gently. Wendy's breath escaped in a puff as she sighed. She trembled.

The kiss lasted two seconds, if that, before Wendy pulled away. "I'm sorry," she said, looking anywhere but Severus. "I'm sorry—I know what you want, and I know you mean well, but it's—it's too soon, it's only been a month. It wouldn't be right, not fair to Luke—"

"Luke's dead."

She closed her eyes in pain for a moment, then opened them. "I know he's dead. I know he's not coming back."

"I'm here."

"And what?" Wendy's voice was rising again—would she go hysterical?

"And—" he sifted his words carefully. He really didn't want to get into another argument, go through another month of avoiding her eyes. "And I—I care. I care—that you—I want you not to be sad," he finally said, and thought it was rather lame.

"I don't need a lover," Wendy said bluntly. "Not now. But I need a friend, Severus. I need a friend more than anything else. I'm so alone here." Her brow creased in sadness. "I don't need a lover," she repeated, shaking her head slightly, blinking.

"I've never been anyone's friend," Severus said.

"Never?"

"Never."

"What about—about Lily?"

"Lily?" he asked, almost laughing. "We were never friends. I loved her, I worshipped her. She let me kiss her, once, when we were sixteen. Then Potter came to his senses and she went out with him." He couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice.

"I just need someone to talk to," Wendy said desperately.

"I have ears."

Wendy smiled.

  



	13. To Everything Turn, Turn, Turn There is

**Chapter 13 - To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn) There is a Season**

For Ginny, November passed slowly.

After Luke's death, the singing lessons had stopped -- the witch who gave them had been nervous about coming up to the castle. Ginny had felt awkward asking Wendy for further arrangements, for fear of upsetting her, but Wendy had simply smiled gently at her and said she would ask Professor Dumbledore.

That very evening, the Headmaster handed Ginny a piece of parchment with the Floo address of the new singing teacher and the password to his office, with a note to be there at seven-thirty that evening to use his fireplace, as none of the common room fireplaces allowed bodily transit.

The new voice teacher, Madam Bremer, was a large, elegant witch -- though practically a Squib -- who wore just slightly too much perfume and had half-a-dozen too many ornamental vases full of dried flowers scattered around her split-level living room. And the chandelier hovered a little too low. But she was a good singer, a patient teacher, and had been thrilled with Ginny's natural talent.

"The voice is the simplest of instruments," she said in a cultured voice, with a faint accent Ginny rather thought was fake, because it kept shifting between Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum. "And yet it is also the most vulnerable, the most expressive, and the hardest to refine." Her hands fluttered in what was undoubtedly supposed to be an artistic manner. "Are you taking theory classes?"

Ginny explained that there was a music teacher at Hogwarts now -- she conveniently forgot to mention that it was a Muggle -- who was giving them history and theory classes.

"Good, good," said Madam Bremer. "Theory filters through the conscious mind and embeds itself in the subconscience, where, with every note, our minds know its role, its function, its direction. All music originates with that knowledge. We will begin with scales -- so!"

Singing lessons took place every Thursday from then on. They outlined Ginny's sense of time. She went from Thursday to Thursday, practicing, fitting in homework and Quidditch practices, and the occasional Dumbledore's Army meeting.

Harry held D.A. meetings about twice a month now. They no longer focused on specific spells, but on actual fighting, encouraged, and sometimes supervised, by Tonks. Tonks never spoke of her ordeal around Halloween, but Ginny occasionally caught her staring moodily off into space. Tonks merely told them that it was more important than ever for certain students to know how to defend themselves.

"It's almost like they're expecting some sort of attack on the school!" Ginny giggled to Harry in annoyance -- Parvati Patil had hit her with a rather powerful Tickling Hex -- after a particularly difficult session towards the end of November. She expected Harry to snort, or make some sort of reassuring comment.

But instead he pursed his lips thoughtfully and said, "Yeah, you're right." Then he pointed his wand at her. _"Finite,"_ he said, and her giggles stopped. "You've got to remember that one," he added. "You can fix a lot of jinxes simply by cancelling them -- though it takes time."

"You, too!" she exclaimed, her face now set in a frown.

"Me what?"

"You're acting like we're preparing for battle!"

"Aren't we?" He was deadly serious. "Do you really think that Hogwarts is always going to be safe? And what about last June, at the Ministry? Wasn't that a battle?"

"Well, yes, I suppose..."

"Ginny, someone _died_," he said forcefully. "How can you just 'suppose' it was a battle?"

"I'm sorry!" she said quickly. "That's not what I-- I know-- I didn't mean-- Of course, you're right, it's fighting, and we have to prepare for it... but... "

"We've got to take these things seriously. At least," he added in an undertone, "I do."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Harry sighed and looked away. "Nothing," he muttered.

"Harry," Ginny said, grabbing him by the arm, "what do you mean by that? You can't possibly think we'll let you take on You-Know-Who singlehandedly."

He didn't look at her.

"You don't have to do it alone," Ginny said.

Harry looked extremely uncomfortable. "Yeah, I do," he muttered.

"What are you talking about?" she said, releasing his arm and staring intently at him.

Harry looked up and down the corridor; there were still a handful of students hurrying up and down it. He pulled her into an empty classroom.

"I haven't told anyone this," he said. "Only Dumbledore and a few other people know, and they don't really know the whole story."

Ginny hoisted herself up onto a desk and watched him carefully. "What about Ron and Hermione?"

"They don't really know ... the whole story." He frowned, took a deep breath, then began to speak. "Voldemort went for my parents because of a prophecy Professor Trelawney made. Not her usual thing," he said, when Ginny snorted and looked incredulous. "She's made two real prophecies, as far as I know, both about Lord Voldemort. The second one she made to me during my exam in my third year, the night that we discovered Sirius' innocence -- you know that story, right?"

Ginny nodded. It had been a pretty strange story that Hermione had told her one night at Grimmauld Place, about Time Turners and Animagi and secret tunnels.

"Trelawney said that the Dark Lord would return, greater and more terrible than ever before, because his servant would set out to rejoin him. And that night Wormtail escaped."

"And the first one?" Ginny asked.

Harry's eyes fixed at a spot somewhere above Ginny's left shoulder. "She made it to Dumbledore at her interview sixteen years ago. It was stored in that glass ball in the Department of Mysteries. It's the weapon that Voldemort wanted last year, it's why he lured me to the Ministry. He wanted me to retrieve it for him."

Ginny's mouth was hanging slightly open. She nodded for him to continue.

He did so, sounding very tired. "Neville smashed it during the battle, but Dumbledore had a memory of it stored in his Pensieve. I listened to it after -- after we returned to school."

"What did it say?" she asked tentatively.

"I can remember every word," Harry said. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."

Ginny wasn't sure what to say. "Oh," she said. "So it means that you --"

"Yeah," he said bitterly. "That I've got to kill Voldemort or else he's got to kill me. No other way."

On a sudden impulse, Ginny slid off the desk, then reached out and hugged Harry. "Don't worry," she said into his robes. "No matter what that Prophecy says, we won't let you do it alone. You may have to fight V-- Voldemort, but we'll take on the rest of the Death Eaters."

Harry's body felt stiff and uncomfortable at first, but, as Ginny persisted in holding onto him, he relaxed. He was trembling, and Ginny wondered if she really had stopped having a crush on him, because all she wanted to do right now was make him feel better.

No. She was just being a good friend.

They broke apart slowly. "Thanks," Harry said, his breathing a little unsteady. "I think -- I think I needed that. And --"

"I won't breathe a word," she said earnestly. "Weasley honor."

  
Severus worried about Draco Malfoy. He'd been missing far too many classes, lately.

Severus disliked the boy, of course, for many reasons: like his father, he was an arrogant snob; like his father, he wanted to be a Death Eater; like his father, he expected to be favored by authority figures because he had money.

And he had sent Luke Navarra to his death. That was a mixed bag, however -- it had made Wendy single, and as a Slytherin, Severus would never miss an opportunity like that.

Nevertheless, the boy was too similar to Lucius, in both appearance and behavior.

But dislike aside, Severus was concerned at the amount of classes the boy was missing. Had Lucius taken the boy fully into the Inner Circle? Severus hadn't been summoned since September, which brought up another worrying thought: had the Dark Lord discovered him? Had the rumors connecting his name with Wendy's -- many wondered why it had been Tonks and not Wendy who had been kidnapped -- turned sour in the Dark Lord's ears?

Severus stared at Malfoy's empty seat in Potions and worried so much that Hermione Granger actually had to say his name several times before he heard her.

"What, Miss Granger?" he asked, forgetting to snap.

"Please, Professor," she said, "Terry's cauldron just melted, and it's leaking all over the place, and I know he didn't brew the potion right, so it's not simply a Cleansing Compound spreading along the floor, I think it might be toxic --"

Merlin, had he been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he'd stopped paying attention to the sixth-year N.E.W.T. class? Now that he was no longer preoccupied, he heard the cries of horror and the pandemonium that usually accompanied a potions spill, especially when the brewer wasn't the most competent.

He sprang up from his desk. "Boot!" he roared, in a convincing imitation of his usual bellow.

"I'm sorry, Professor!" Terry Boot wailed. "I don't know what happened!"

"Obviously, or it wouldn't have happened!" he snarled. "Twenty points from Ravenclaw and a detention tonight!" The potion was spreading fairly rapidly. He pointed his wand at the floor and said, _"Concameratus,"_ and the floor bent slightly upwards around the spill, effectively corralling it before it could spread further. "I want you all to take note," he hissed, "of how I clean up this spill, because next time, you will have to clean it yourself or suffer."

The Potions Master persona settled back on him easily. He proceeded to demonstrate, with snarky asides and insults tossed in Terry Boot's direction, how to clean up a spreading potion without having to touch it, and how to check that no surrounding materials had been contaminated. By the time he had used the word "incompetent" enough, the bell had rung, and the sixth-years made their escape to dinner.

"And, Mr. Boot, I want you here at seven o'clock promptly," Severus said over the noise. "There is a large stack of cauldrons to be scrubbed. You may leave your wand in your dormitory."

Terry Boot paused, opened his mouth, and received an elbow in the ribs from several Ravenclaws in the class. He closed his mouth.

Severus now had perhaps three hours in which to investigate the whereabouts of Draco Malfoy.

  
A quick walk took Severus down the grounds to the gates, now standing open again. The lawn was littered with students braving the wind to catch what was probably the last sunshine of the year. Once he'd passed the gates, he Apparated.

Malfoy Manor seemed as imposing and cold as ever. Manicured lawns sloped gently away from the white brick. Despite the cold, a few roses hung on to life in the gardens lining the large picture windows all along the front. Sweeping, classical columns framed a porch upon which sat a small wrought-iron patio set: a bench, two chairs, and a glass-topped table. It should have been impressive yet welcoming, and indeed had been when Severus first saw the Manor as a young man, but now the Grecian beauty left him unmoved. He wondered idly whether it was seeing the dungeons or getting to know Lucius Malfoy better that had changed his impression.

The house appeared unoccupied, almost deserted, but a faint outline of footprints along the gravel path leading around the side gave away the presence of at least one person.

Severus wished, not for the first time, that he could afford an invisibility cloak, but they were far out of the range of a professor's salary. He settled, instead, on pulling out his wand and Disillusioning himself. It wouldn't fool anyone looking for movement, but if someone simply glanced out the window, he wouldn't be spotted. Wand at the ready, he crept up towards the house and slid between two rosebushes to lean against the white brick of the outer wall.

The footprints had been going around to the right side, so Severus crept very slowly around, his ears pricked for voices, his mind as blank as he could make it; if the Dark Lord were inside the Manor, Severus didn't want to announce his presence by loud broadcasting. He reached the side gate, relieved not to have set off any alarms.

The side gate was probably warded, though. Severus glanced around to make sure he was alone. Not even a gnome.

_"Detecto!"_ he whispered, moving his wand in a sequence of semicircles. Glittering silver smoke wafted out of it and drifted towards the gate and the fence. As it passed over the fence, faint blue lines were revealed, crisscrossing like spider-silk-thin bridge girders, attached to the gate, extending from the ground to several hundred feet up.

It looked like a simple Watchers' Ward, the kind any witch or wizard would put on their garden gate and connect to the kitchen or sitting room, to announce the presence of visitors. But that was far too humane for the Malfoys. No one ever came to the Manor without invitation; no one ever went around the garden gate unless directed to do so. All visitors were processed through the front door and the small army of house-elves Lucius usually possessed.

Hm. Too simple.

He waved his wand and vanished the smoke. _"Indissimulo,"_ he murmured. This time, a slight disturbance in the air, like a heat wave, pulsated towards the gate. If Lucius was as Severus remembered, he would have left a thread of a spell over the gate to, say, behead the first person through, or simply turn their body inside out. The _Indissimulo_ charm wouldn't show seriously dark magic, but it would show any spells that weren't wards.

Ah, yes. There it was. Rather clumsily cast, too -- an extremely thick rope of magic that stretched straight across the gate. Easy enough to circumvent by climbing over the fence rather than opening the gate. The Watchers' Ward was no problem, either. And the only smell of dark magic was coming from the usual spot in the basement. So Severus clambered over the fence, holding his breath and keeping his mind still, and was inside.

No krups running for him.

No dragons suddenly breathing fire, either.

Instead, a murmur of voices came from the Rear Small Drawing Room.

He hurried to the wall and crouched down below the level of the windows. It was extremely muddy; someone was doing a slipshod job of the gardening. Severus was very glad Fred and George Weasley were not there to hear the fervent thanks he sent their way as he untangled a jumble of transparent string and stuck one end of it in his ear.

The newly improved Extendable Ear slithered along the bricks of the Manor's outside wall, looking for cracks or chinks. A climber of ivy clung tenaciously to the wall; the Ear sped alongside it then paused, as if sniffing. Then it plunged into the wall and voices came into Severus' ear.

  
"... and yet the boy was sorted into Ravenclaw."

"Yes, Father. But from what I've heard --" Draco's voice was eager, disgustingingly sly, "-- he's quite the outcast. He has no friends; he always sits alone at meals, and none of the teachers seem fond of him, not even Flitwick."

"And Professor Snape?"

"The first-years say that Snape --"

"_Professor_ Snape, Draco."

"-- right, _Professor_ Snape treats him like any other first-year."

"Unpleasantly, then."

"Yeah."

There was a pause, and a chink of glass on wood. Lucius was probably drinking. His speech was slightly careful. "You see, Draco, the boy is the one factor that could go wrong here. I don't doubt that Dumbledore will allow his parents to see him -- the man's such a soft old fool -- so it's only a matter of convincing him."

"Couldn't they just use the Imperius Curse?"

"Draco, Draco, you might have received your looks from me and your intelligence from your mother, but even you shouldn't forget that their wands will have been confiscated."

"Oh," said Draco in a sulky mutter.

"But the boy is only eleven -- he will be easy enough to cajole," Lucius mused. There was a pause. It sounded as though Draco was fidgeting. "I confess to a certain curiosity as to how they managed to find enough energy to produce a child."

"What do you mean, Father?"

"They were locked in Azkaban when she became pregnant. The boy was born approximately three years after their imprisonment began, which means that over two years into their sentence, they mated."

Draco made a sound of disgust. "Blech."

"How did Rodolphus even get it up?" asked Lucius, apparently to himself, for Draco did not respond. "How could he retain enough energy to hold sexual excitement long enough to reach climax?"

There was a long pause, while Draco probably fidgeted some more. Severus could easily picture them. The Rear Small Drawing Room was one of the less unfriendly and imposing rooms in the Manor -- tastefully upholstered in brown leather, sumptuous Persian rugs from the fourteenth century scattered over a floor of unvarnished wood planks, bookshelves stuffed with rare vases and an assortment of actual books, rather than fake book bindings with impressive Latin titles. There was a French door, and windows, overlooking the rear gardens, and a fireplace in the very corner, set at an angle to the walls. If Severus remembered correctly, there was even a complete collection of Jane Austen writings, first printing, from one of the more eccentric Malfoy women. The whole room gave off a very different atmosphere than the rest of the Manor's glacial beauty.

Lucius would be sitting at an upright ease in the armchair between the door and the fireplace, gazing out at his gardens. Draco would probably be slouching in another chair, somewhere along the wall, kicking his feet moodily and glaring enviously at his father's glass of Old Ogden's.

"Father, why couldn't Snape -- I mean, _Professor_ Snape simply do it? Why bother with everything else? If he's already in the castle..."

Lucius sighed, rather melodramatically.

"I shall explain again. First, Severus couldn't kill Potter; that's the Dark Lord's privilege -- the prophecy, you know. Secondly, Severus must appear to be loyal to Dumbledore, and cannot arouse too much suspicion. Thirdly -- and, Draco, you know you are not to breathe a word of this outside the Circle --"

"Of course, Father," Draco murmured excitedly.

"-- but I believe that the Dark Lord is not entirely convinced of Severus' loyalty. If indeed Severus has turned traitor, then any plan left in his hands would fail. Oh, it would appear to be an accident, to be an oversight on someone else's part, but it would fail. And if he is still loyal to our master, then, again, he must keep up appearances with Dumbledore. But I strongly suspect that he will not be part of the Circle for much longer."

  
Outside, crouching underneath a browning privet bush, Severus' blood had turned to ice. He was a skilled Occlumens, but lies are hard to keep up when a school full of children talks amongst themselves. And at least three of those children knew that he was... he wasn't even going to think it. Perhaps many more knew by now where his loyalties lay. Children talk; they gossip.

A soft _poof_ announced the arrival of another visitor in the garden, one who plainly had permission to be there.

Severus gave the Ear a hearty tug and it slithered back into his hand. Then he quieted his reeling brain, breathing deeply and evenly. He thought of a cloud of white smoke, drifting lazily through his mind and stilling all the thoughts it encountered along the way. Such a quiet Apparition could only mean a powerful wizard. Either it was Dumbledore -- which was extremely unlikely -- or it was the Dark Lord.

Severus didn't dare move a muscle or think of anything. His mind was a solid wall, a sheet of impenetrable iron.

The newcomer sniffed the air. Severus blessed the scent of the privet bush and the mud on his robes from squeezing into his hiding place. He felt the telltale poke of a powerful Legilimens trying to find someone. _I am an empty vessel. There is nothing here._

"Hm." It had to be the Dark Lord -- that was his sound of doubt.

Severus tightened his sweaty fingers around his wand, preparing to fight. Then inspiration struck.

He was exceptionally glad that Minerva, after hearing of Severus' newspaper-dog fiasco at the Muggles' back in August, had insisted that he learn animal transfigurations. In two seconds there was a small, fluffy, white rabbit, of the _singularis lepidus_ variety. It looked real -- white fur, pink ears, fuzzy tail. Its nose twitched; it hopped experimentally. Severus prodded it with his wand, and it lept into the air, startled, and collided noisily with a branch.

"Who's there?" hissed the Dark Lord.

The rabbit, terrified, shot out from under the privet bush straight to the Dark Lord.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

A rushing sound swept the garden. There was a flash of green light, and Severus prayed that his rabbit would stay a rabbit even when dead.

The Dark Lord's footsteps crunched away. They paused, scuffed the ground, then continued to walk further away.

After a moment, Severus heard a knock on the glass doors of the Rear Small Drawing Room, and breathed. He peeked under the privet bush and saw a dead rabbit lying in the smoothly raked shells. _Thank you, Minerva,_ he thought fervently.

He straightened up and carefully extricated himself from the privet bush. Pointing his wand at himself, he muttered, _"Scourgify."_ The mud and leaves disappeared. He raked his fingers through his hair and disentangled a few sticky privet flowers. When his hair was as clean as it ever got, he Un-Disilllusioned himself, retrieved the rabbit from the garden path, and strode boldly around to the back door.

He rapped on the window. "Draco!" he called. "Draco, are you in there?"

The figures inside were exactly as he would have predicted: Lucius, seated in his favorite armchair, Draco sulking by the wall, and the Dark Lord prowling in the shadows, casting the Jane Austen books disdainful glares.

All three of them looked up sharply at his voice. Lucius looked livid at first, but then composed his features; Draco simply looked sulky; and the Dark Lord looked as he always did -- evil.

Lucius strode over and opened the French door. "Severus," he said. "What a pleasure."

"And you, Lucius," lied Severus. He held up the dead animal. "Your gardens must be suffering in your absence -- I found this on the path."

"I killed it," said the Dark Lord. "Lucius, take care of it." Lucius took the dead rabbit and threw it onto the fire. The smell of charred meat began to fill the room.

Severus approached the skeletally thin figure of the Dark Lord. "Master," he murmured, sinking to his knees and crawling forward to kiss the hem of his robes, "master."

"You may stand, Severus." Severus stood. "What brings you here at this time?" His voice was suspicious.

"I wondered where Draco was," he said simply. "He's missed many classes."

"You traveled all the way to the Manor just because of a few missed potions lessons?" guffawed Draco.

Lucius looked as though he quite wanted to hex Draco for being so childish in front of their master. "Draco!" he hissed.

"Lucius, calm down," said the Dark Lord. "He's but a child." This phrase merely made Lucius angrier.

"Not for 'a few missed potions lessons,' no," Severus sneered at Draco. "Albus is becoming suspicious," he said truthfully to the Dark Lord. "Ever since the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor returned, he has wondered how two of his professors were kidnapped from inside the castle. I, of course, know nothing," he said blandly. "However, as Albus' prodigal son, I promised I would find out what was detaining young Mr. Malfoy." He recalled up a manufactured memory of a cheerful meeting in Albus' office, and a remembered distaste for the oversweetened tea and the constant offer of lemon drops.

The Dark Lord let out a high, cold laugh. "Albus is so trusting, is he not?"

"Indeed, master," said Severus. "Trusting to a fault."

"Why didn't you ring the doorbell?" demanded Draco suddenly.

Lucius looked around from his carefully casual stance at the windows.

"I did," lied Severus. "No one answered."

"So you came around the back?" asked Lucius sharply.

"Obviously," he said.

"Why didn't the wards go off?" said Draco quickly, trying to be clever.

"Those were yours?" Severus asked, every inch surprised.

"Whose else would they be?" Draco said insolently.

"I am still your professor," Severus hissed, "whether or not we are inside the school --"

"Draco," interrupted the Dark Lord patronisingly, "did you put wards up?"

"Yes, I did," said Draco proudly. "A Watcher's Ward and that special one you showed me, Father, you know, the one that turns people inside out --"

"But why?" Lucius bit out.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Draco, this house is supposed to be _unoccupied._ I am locked up in prison, you are safely at school, and your mother is with relatives. Not even a house-elf remaining -- no wonder he didn't answer the doorbell, Severus," Lucius said, an elegant hint of apology in his voice as he shook his head gracefully. He turned back to Draco, whose shoulders were hunched sullenly. "That was probably the most foolish thing you could have done," Lucius said coldly. "How did you get around them?" he asked Severus.

"I climbed over the gate," said Severus truthfully, with a hint of sneer. "The ... ah, _special_ ward was pathetically easy to circumvent. There was no need to set the Watcher's Ward off -- for all I knew, it was set by Aurors."

Lucius gave Draco a look that said I'll Deal With You Later, and turned to Severus. "Severus," he said, "do you need to bring him back to school this moment?"

Severus looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. "I must return by seven o'clock to supervise a detention," he said distastefully. "One of the sixth-years destroyed half the classroom during the last class of the day --"

"Was it Potter?" interrupted Draco.

"Mr. Malfoy," warned Severus, "do not interrupt me! Again, I am still your prof --"

"Yes, yes," said Lucius impatiently, waving his hands.

"I came to instruct Draco," said the Dark Lord. He had appropriated Lucius' favorite chair and was watching the rabbit burn to ash in the fire. The stench was quite appalling. "He cannot leave yet."

Which meant that Severus couldn't, either. "Yes, my Lord," he said respectfully, and withdrew. Damn. There went dinner.

"Your dinner will wait," said the Dark Lord repressively. "If I could wait thirteen years for a loyal servant, you can wait a few hours for food."

"Of course, master."

"Draco," the Dark Lord said. "I have instructions for you."

"Yes, master?" said Draco, and there was in his voice an irritating eagerness of which Colin Creevey would have been proud.

"You will not be seen talking to the boy. You will not approach the dungeons where the Death Eaters are kept. You will return to school with Severus after this meeting, spend two days in the Hospital wing with a bad bout of ... something. Something contagious. Severus will work out the details."

Lucius looked quickly at Severus, his eyes hinting suspicion, but Severus merely nodded at the Dark Lord and murmured something appropriate.

"When your return to classes, you will tell everyone -- no exceptions -- that your mother is ill, and you caught whatever-it-will-be from her."

"Yes, my Lord," said Draco. The similarity to Colin Creevey was unnerving.

"You will resume your studies and blend in with your fellow Slytherins. Keep your head down, behave as usual."

Severus allowed a snort to escape.

Both the Dark Lord and Lucius turned to him. Lucius raised one elegantly arched eyebrow -- Severus knew for a fact that Lucius used at least three charms a day on his eyebrows alone -- but stayed silent.

"Yes, Severus?"

"My apologies, master," said Severus at once. "Mr. Malfoy's usual behavior is not to blend in with his fellows. He is perhaps the most prominent Slytherin in the school." Careful phrasing.

Lucius looked smug, the Dark Lord thoughtful. "I see. Perhaps, Draco, you ought to gradually become less noticeable. You will have greater maneuverability that way."

"Of course, master," said Draco at once. "As you wish."

"When our plans are put into action, you are not to be suspect. You will simply be another student."

Severus desperately wished he knew what these plans were, so he could tell ... _no._ He wished he knew what the plans were, but _of course_ his master would not risk letting all his servants know the details, in case a skilled Legilimens, such as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, chose to interrogate them.

The Dark Lord finished addressing Draco. "And we come to you, Severus," he said. "I must confess I did not expect to see you until the next gathering. What news do you have?"

"The Muggle woman continues teaching -- she is trying to organize the students into ... ah ... _ensembles_." He pronounced the word with calculated distaste. "I believe there is to be a Christmas concert," he sneered. "She is quite out of her depth at the school. Only last week one of the younger Slytherins decided to test his newfound knowledge of the Leg-Locker Curse on the woman as they passed in the corridor. She had to be rescued by McGonagall." Severus vividly remembered Minerva ranting about the incident at the Heads of House meeting.

"And you still have no idea why Dumbledore is bothering to teach the students music, of all subjects?"

"No, my Lord," he said regretfully. "There are a few curious interactions, naturally. There is the Bach Effect -- you are familiar with it, my Lord?" At his nod, Severus continued, "and several other composers have written complex pieces with showy effects, aligning molecules and such." He paused, contemptuously. "I believe," he said thoughtfully, "that Dumbledore is trying to encourage the students to take an interest in Muggles."

The Dark Lord crowed with laughter. "The old fool. And what of the Defense professor?"

"She recovers."

"Has she told her story to any of the staff?"

"She told us that she was tortured for several days," Severus said carelessly, "and when she had an opportunity, seized a wand from one of her guards and escaped."

"Yes, that sounds right," said the Dark Lord.

"My Lord, if I may ask?" he said tentatively, "did she actually escape? I remember Nymphadora Tonks as exceptionally clumsy. I can scarcely believe that she became an Auror, let alone managed to free herself from Azkaban."

Lucius let out a hiss of recognition. "Yes?" said the Dark Lord.

"I just realized..." ventured Lucius. "Master, I thought I recognized her when we first brought her in. I saw her at the Ministry, except that her hair was purple then -- she's a Metamorphmagus."

The Dark Lord nodded at Lucius. "Useful information to have. Thank you, Lucius." Lucius preened. The Dark Lord returned his attention to Severus, who met his gaze. "No, Severus, she did not escape. My Death Eaters, incompetent as they can be, are not so powerless."

_And yet, according to Tonks, you were disabled by a Jelly-Legs Jinx,_ thought Severus, but extremely quietly.

Draco spoke up, unnecessarily, "So Bella, Rodolphus, and the rest were practically invited into the school!"

"Yes, Draco," said the Dark Lord in a long-suffering voice. Lucius shot his son a Swift Quelling Look. Severus wondered why the Dark Lord was being so patient and understanding with the boy. He was eager to serve, but appallingly bad-mannered and brash.

"What have the Slytherins been saying about me?" Draco asked Severus. The egotistical prat. "And Pansy... Professor," he added.

"Very little," said Severus. "None of them wish to attract attention to your absence. Miss Parkinson told the staff that her parents wished to meet her betrothed. She also says she doesn't know anything about why you've been missing, although -- and this will mesh nicely with your plans, my Lord -- she remembers you mentioning that you were worried about your mother."

Draco smirked. There was a pause.

"Shall I return Mr. Malfoy to school, my Lord, Lucius?" Severus asked smoothly.

"Not quite yet, I think," said the Dark Lord. "I have some questions for you."

Severus restrained a shudder of apprehension and mentally located his wand.

"Where were you on Halloween night? Why did Lucius' and Draco's plan go awry?"

Severus felt his stomach drop. Wendy was going to _kill_ him.

"My apologies, Lord," he said, bowing his head. "The Amorousness Additive was very potent, and ... and it has been a long time since I have been with a woman..."

Draco snickered.

"Quiet, Draco," hissed the Dark Lord menacingly. "Or leave. I repeat, Severus, _what were you doing?_"

"I was in bed with her, my Lord."

"You were having sex with a Muggle, Severus?" said Lucius incredulously.

"You too, Lucius," said the Dark Lord. "This is my business. The question is a valid one, though -- you were having sex with a _Muggle_? A common, foul Muggle woman?"

Severus wondered if he ought to fall to his knees, and decided, on balance, not to. That would indicate that he was begging for some sort of reprieve, and part of his argument here was that he had done nothing wrong. "My Lord, please understand -- I was under the influence of the potion, and she did not seem ... attached to Lu -- the Muggle. She was merely a toy, an object."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed, my Lord. Nothing but a ... quick tumble."

The Dark Lord laughed cruelly. "So the woman means nothing to you, Severus?" he said archly.

"No, my Lord, of course not!" exclaimed Severus with a snort. "Merely one night of pleasure --"

"Mutual?"

Severus drew a quick breath. Wendy wouldn't kill him -- she was going to have him drawn and quartered. "How should I know?" he said, as though the very notion was absurd. "I fucked her, she left."

Draco sniggered again, but quietly.

"No hysterics? No 'spend your life with me'? No 'don't you love me?'"

"No," said Severus, quite truthfully. Oh, Wendy was not only going to kill him, she was going to eviscerate him personally, with a blunt knife, and have his balls as a side dish with a main course of his head for dinner. _SautŽed Genitalia a la Severus_.

"She was quite easy to get into my bed, and just as easy to kick out. She's just a Muggle."

Good God. Draco would spread this around the school like wildfire. Her authority would be undermined even more than it already was by her Muggleness. He thought for a moment. "I suspect the Amorousness Additive addled her brains slightly. Muggles are so susceptible to potions."

"They are, aren't they?" said the Dark Lord. "You would know, would you not?"

Yes, he thought bitterly. He knew. He knew just how susceptible Muggles were to potions.

"It was a small moment of weakness," Severus said. "Had I but known about the plan..." he trailed off, looking meaningfully at Lucius. Could he foist the blame off?

"Don't try to foist the blame off on me, Severus," said Lucius immediately. "I --"

"Ah, but Lucius," said the Dark Lord with what would have been a wide smile on a normal face, and on his face looked like a death grimace, "Severus is correct. Had he known of your plan, you could have brought me both Muggles, and the insult to our race would have been eradicated easily." He fingered his wand; Lucius tensed in anticipation.

The curse never came. "But I have punished you enough for that -- both of you," the Dark Lord said, his gaze sweeping Draco, who flinched. "So we move on. The woman is no threat, merely an insult. There are bigger plans, already in motion."

"Of course, my Lord," said Severus.

"Severus, you are to continue your observations of the school, encouraging our likely candidates and informing me of the plans of the Other Side."

"Yes, master."

There was another pause.

"Well, if that's everything, master?" asked Draco, getting to his feet. "I'd rather like to get back to school and to din --"

The Dark Lord barely even looked at him. _"Crucio,"_ he said lazily.

Draco fell to the ground, screaming. Severus hoped his vindictive pleasure was buried far enough, as he watched the boy writhe and drool, gasp and gag.

Lucius' face was impassive. Every Death Eater experienced this at some point. No sympathy would ever be forthcoming from one Death Eater to another; Draco was no longer Lucius' son, Severus realized, but his fellow.

The Dark Lord lifted his wand, and Draco groaned. There were tears on his face.

"Let that be a reminder," the Dark Lord hissed, "that while I understand you are young and inexperienced, I will not tolerate disrespect or impertinence from you!"

"Yes, my Lord," gasped Draco. "I am so sorry, my Lord."

Severus looked at his watch. Quarter past six.

The Dark Lord swung his head and gazed at them all in turn. As their eyes met, Severus flooded his mind with thoughts of loyalty and eagerness, disdain for Draco, a fair amount of hunger, and a good deal of fear. The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at him. "Severus," he hissed.

"Yes, master?"

"You must work on your Occlumency."

"Master?"

"You broadcast far too much. You will be an easy target for the Old Fool."

"Yes, my Lord," Severus replied solemnly.

With a nearly inaudible _poof_, the Dark Lord vanished.

Lucius turned to Severus. "Take this pitiful boy back to school," he spat. "I don't want to see him until he can control himself."

"Father!"

"I have nothing to say to you, Draco."

"What? But, Father..." Draco whined.

"Come, Mr. Malfoy," Severus said, and grasped Draco by the arm, pulling him towards the door.

"What's that all about?" demanded Draco as they left the Rear Small Drawing Room and finally gained the fresh air of the garden. He shook his arm free, giving Severus a reproachful, pouty look.

Severus didn't answer. "We return to school," he said repressively. "You have your instructions, I have mine."

"But, Professor --"

"We discuss nothing, Mr. Malfoy!"

They Apparated. The sun sat behind the Forest and the grounds were empty.

"How come no one seems to like me anymore?" sulked Draco as they trudged up the path to the castle.

"Everyone loves children," Severus said. "If you wish to be treated as an adult, you must --"

"--act like an adult," intoned Draco.

Severus raised an eyebrow. "No," he said. "Don't interrupt me. If you wish to be treated as an adult, you must first understand how adults treat each other."

"And that means not liking me?" he pouted.

Severus resisted the urge to snarl at him to grow up. "It means that people won't automatically like you," he said patiently.

"You sound like Dumbledore."

"Mr. Malfoy," he said warningly.

Draco had the grace to look abashed. "Sorry, Professor."

There was silence while they walked.

"What sort of disease am I going to get?" Draco asked. "Professor."

"You will have all the symptoms of Elvish stomach flu," said Severus.

"Elvish stomach flu!"

"The virus is undetectable by most mediwitches, and Madam Pomfrey is no exception. She will only see the symptoms, and will not know that it is not the real disease. And you caught it from your mother's attendant."

"But --"

Severus raised an eyebrow, and Draco fell into a mutinous silence. Revenge is sweet.

  
Albus Dumbledore checked the wards around the holding cell. The prisoners inside didn't have their wands, but one could never be too careful.

He strongly disliked the thought of Hogwarts acting as a prison, but the truth was that Azkaban had become useless and the Ministry didn't have any better place. He also rather suspected Cornelius Fudge of being slightly vindictive, pushing his problems off his shoulders onto Albus' own. Said shoulders were feeling rather stooped and old, lately. He had been on the Earth for one hundred and sixty-seven years, as of today, but there would be no celebrations for him.

The wards were secure around the holding cell. The Death Eaters inside glared at him. One hissed.

"Headmaster?" Professor Flitwick had arrived as requested.

"Filius, yes. Thank you for coming," Albus said. "I'm terribly sorry about this."

"As am I, Professor," squeaked Filius. "He's just outside -- shall I? If things are ready?"

"Yes, they are. You may bring him in."

Filius disappeared for a few seconds. When he returned he was accompanied by a dark-haired young boy, a first year. "Now, there's no need to be nervous," he was saying. "The Headmaster and I are here just in case --"

"Thank you, Professor," said the boy, with a maturity saddeningly beyond his years. "I appreciate it."

He stepped up to the shimmering ward and surveyed the two people behind it.

"Hello, mother, father," said Rigel Lestrange.


	14. I'll Love You Forever

**Chapter 14: I'll Love You Forever**

"Hello, mother, father," said Rigel Lestrange.

"My son," said Bellatrix Lestrange, in a horrible parody of a mother's croon. "My darling baby, all grown up! Look, Roddy, look how tall he's become!"

"Bella, stop acting like an idiot."

"Oh, if only I could hug you, darling Rigel. I've missed you. We've both missed you, haven't we, Roddy? When we were locked up, wasn't I always asking, 'I wonder how my baby is?' Wasn't I? Wasn't I, Roddy?"

Rigel Lestrange gazed levelly at the two creatures who had given him his genes. They were thin and gaunt, with faces showing lines from the years spent in Azkaban. Bellatrix Lestrange's expression was rapt and intense, her eyes never leaving Rigel's face. Rodolphus, on the other hand, looked everywhere except at Rigel.

They were his mother and father.

And they had tortured someone else's mother and father into insanity.

Every time Rigel passed Neville Longbottom in the hall, he wondered if the other boy saw only his parents' attackers in Rigel. As the two boys were in different houses and different years, their interactions had been limited, and Rigel rather thought Neville was grateful for that. Rigel had never known, until now, whether or not he resembled his parents. He did—and yet not completely, which was gratifying.

"You wanted to see me?" he said politely.

"Of course!" crooned Bellatrix. "I never thought I could lay eyes on you again, but when I found myself here, and I remembered that my son would have turned eleven this year—such a long separation, wasn't it, Roddy?—I thought, well, why not? And our _esteemed_ Headmaster so kindly agreed to let us visit with you."

Dear Merlin. She was completely insane.

"So, son," boomed Rodolphus, "tell us all about your classes."

"I have Charms, Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, History of Magic, Astronomy, Flying, and Defense Against the Dark Arts," Rigel replied.

"Which is your favorite?" asked Rodolphus.

Rigel studied him for a moment before responding. Rodolphus Lestrange had given his son his nose and eyebrows, but not much else. The ears, perhaps.

"Charms," he answered.

"Really?" asked Bella, who had passed on to him her eyes—minus the insane gleam, he assumed—and chin, and was apparently full of lively interest. "Flitwick teaches that, right?"

"Yes," said Rigel, aware that Flitwick was standing at the back of the room. "He's excellent. And my classmates are very nice."

Actually, they weren't nice at all—they regarded him as some sort of sinister intruder. During his first week, the rest of the first years had all made warding signs at him, scuttling around him in the hallways, and flinching whenever his name was called on the roll.

If only his foster parents had let him take their name. Hewitt. Nice and boring. A suitable name for a Ravenclaw. Rigel Hewitt. Nerdy and memorable. But the Hewitts had insisted that he keep his name—"After all, dear, they won't be around forever, and you'll be there to change the reputation of the name." Such idealism.

"What other classes do you like, son?" said Rodolphus.

"I like Herbology," said Rigel. "And Transfiguration is pretty neat."

"Don't you like Potions? Or Defense?" asked Bellatrix, her voice teetering away from _completely insane_ towards _absolutely barking mad._

"Potions is all right," Rigel said, "though we're not learning anything difficult. And I don't really like Defense. All those dark creatures and hexes and stuff."

Bellatrix' face worked horribly to stay smiling. "That's a pity. I always liked Defense Against the Dark Arts."

_You mean the Dark Arts,_ thought Rigel savagely.

"Me, too," said Rodolphus after a rather long moment. He looked extremely uncomfortable.

"And how have you been, Mother, Father?" Rigel asked politely. He heard a small splutter from Flitwick, who turned it into a cough.

"Just fine, darling," enthused Bellatrix, her lips wide in a horrible grin. "Oh, it's so wonderful to see you. So nice to know that _you're following in our footsteps,_" she said, and her black eyes bored into his, "and becoming a _proper wizard._ Top of your class, are you?"

It was a pathetic attempt at subtlety. "I don't know," said Rigel honestly. "We don't see our cumulative marks until Christmas, and that's five weeks away. And there's a Muggle-born, Mark Evans, who's quite talented. He might be top of the class."

Rodolphus and Bellatrix both looked ready to explode at this.

"A Muggle-born?" asked Rodolphus, trying to conceal his disdain behind a thin veneer of mild interest.

"Don't you want to be on the top, darling?" said Bellatrix. "Don't you want to be better than everyone else? You should really study hard, you know. Don't let any nast—any _other_ students get ahead of you."

"I do study, mother," said Rigel. "I'm doing just as well _as I want_." If they were going for thinly veiled subtlety, Rigel could handle that.

Her eyes flashed, then settled. "Of course, my dear," she said, with that sickly sweetness back in her voice. "I'm sure that you're doing your best, no matter what scores you receive."

That was calculated to annoy, and it did. But he let it pass. Silence permeated the room again.

Dumbledore coughed once, and Rigel heard a crunching noise that was probably a lemon drop between the Headmaster's teeth. "So tell me about your friends, son," said Rodolphus.

"They're nice."

"Who are they?" asked Bellatrix. Behind her motherly interest was an obvious desire for Rigel to become a proper little Death Eater, with only purebloods for friends.

"Oh, just the usual people," said Rigel with a shrug. "Other first-years—there's a fifth-year prefect who's shown me around." _To the inside of a locked broom cupboard._

"Just make sure they _deserve_ your friendship, son," said Rodolphus. "You don't want to go mixing around with the _wrong sort._"

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I think, Rigel," he said gently, "that you ought to return to your dormitory."

"But, Dumbledore, we've just started getting to know him!" protested Bellatrix. "My own son, my darling, away from me for so long... don't we have the right to see our own child—"

"My apologies, Mrs. Lestrange," said Dumbledore politely, coming to stand next to Rigel, "but he is a student, and there is homework awaiting him."

"And you are criminals," said Rigel, no longer able to contain his disgust and hatred, "and have no rights to me whatsoever."

The change was instantaneous. Bellatrix screamed and scrabbled at her robes as though searching for a wand; Rodolphus lept towards Rigel with his hands outstretched, as though to throttle him, but was tossed backwards by the shimmering barrier. He thudded against the wall and struggled to get up again.

"Filthy, unworthy brat!" spat Bellatrix. "How dare you be so ungrateful!"

"You nasty little beast," Rodolphus hissed, his fingers twitching around his waist where his wand would normally be kept. "You belong to us, you've got our blood inside you."

"You've given me your faces and bodies, but my brain is my own," Rigel retorted. "I'm not you." Ever since he'd sat down at the Ravenclaw table on September 1 and his fellow students had almost climbed over each other to stay away from him, anger and resentment had begun to nag at him, and all that suddenly clawed its way to the surface. "I'm not you," he repeated, "and I never will be! You didn't raise me, you didn't make me—you have no claim to me, none at all. I'm not going to be like you!"

"You will be!" cried Bellatrix. "You'll be ours, you have no idea—the Dark Lord already owns you—"

"I think the interview is over, Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange," said Dumbledore firmly. "Good day to you." He pulled Rigel out of the room, and Flitwick moved in to secure the wards again.

Rigel could hear the two Death Eaters screaming and cursing even through the re-warded door, and found that he was breathing hard. He didn't belong to them, dammit! He was his own person, with his own life ahead of him. He liked Charms and Herbology best of his subjects, he had a crush on Hufflepuff Marjorie Brown, whose older sister was in Gryffindor, and he supported the Puddlemere United Quidditch team. He was Rigel, just Rigel.

"Rigel?" said Professor Dumbledore gently.

Thankfully, Dumbledore hadn't addressed him as "Mr. Lestrange." Every time a teacher had to address him as such, he could see clearly how much pain the name caused. "Yes, Professor?" Rigel said.

Dumbledore looked extremely concerned. "Are you all right?"

Rigel opened his mouth to say, "I'm fine, thank you very much," but couldn't lie to those sharp blue eyes. He closed his mouth and shook his head.

Flitwick clucked his tongue sympathetically. "You're right," he squeaked to Rigel. "You're absolutely right."

"About what, Professor?" Rigel found he had to blink rather hard to see clearly.

"My dear boy, you are not them. You're a completely different person. It's simply a relationship you can't help. Just because they were dark wizards doesn't mean you have to be one." He reached up and patted Rigel on the shoulder. His hands were warm and friendly, just like his eyes.

Rigel smiled at him gratefully.

"If you ever feel the need to talk, Rigel," said Dumbledore softly, "my office is open for you. The password this year is 'Canary Cream.' Feel free to simply walk in."

Rigel nodded. He couldn't quite speak, but Dumbledore seemed to understand.

Albus went with Rigel to Flitwick's office and stayed long enough to see the boy ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a mug of hot chocolate and some good conversation. That done, he made his way down the stairs to Severus' office. On his way in, he encountered Terry Boot, who looked as though he'd been scrubbing out frog entrails with his fingernails.

"Evening, Headmaster," the boy said, shuffling past.

"Detention, Mr. Boot?" asked Albus, smiling.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I melted a cauldron today, so Snape—"

"_Professor_ Snape, Mr. Boot."

"Yes, him—had me scrubbing out the first-years' cauldrons by hand. I had to scrape out some of the frog entrails with my fingernails."

"Ahh," said Albus sympathetically.

"G'night," mumbled Terry Boot. He sloped off, clearly destined for a bath and bed.

Albus entered the Potions classroom and went through it to Severus' office. Severus was marking essays, his nose splattered with red ink.

"News?" Albus asked. He twiddled his wand and conjured up a tea tray. It landed on the desk, balancing precariously on top of several stacks of essays.

"Mr. Malfoy is in the Hospital Wing with a severe case of Elvish stomach flu," said Severus without preamble. "He apparently caught it while visiting his mother over the past week." He scribbled something at the top of an essay, looking vindictive.

"I see."

"Madam Pomfrey is, of course, treating this the best way she knows how."

"With a large basin?" Albus poured himself a mug of tea and added milk.

Severus' lips twitched. He reached for the next essay, glanced through it with a raised eyebrow, scowled, then crossed the whole thing out, writing "T" on the top. "Mint tea, _and_ a large basin."

"When will he—er—experience a recovery?" Albus asked, adding a third sugar cube to his cup of tea.

"In two or three days."

"Ideal. Any other news?"

Severus set down his marking, took the cup of tea Albus handed him, then leaned back in his chair, one hand behind his head and his feet on the desk. A bit of mud from the bottom of his boots fell off and splattered onto what looked like Hermione Granger's essay. He explained in detail about his infiltration of Malfoy Manor, the arrival of Lord Voldemort, and the vague hints of a plan.

"Yes, that sounds right," said Albus when he'd finished. "The Lestranges just had a visitation with Rigel."

"Oh?" said Severus, staring up at the ceiling. "I imagine that was enjoyable. With an absolute madwoman and a bumbling idiot trying to be suave."

"Rodolphus asked about Rigel's classes; Bellatrix acted motherly and told him to 'study hard' so he could 'follow in their footsteps' and be a 'proper' wizard."

Severus sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He let his chair fall back with a thud.

"I suppose the Dark Lord—"

"Voldemort," insisted Albus.

Severus flinched, but continued. "—expects Rigel will obey his biological parents. Is there any chance of that?" He sounded as anxious as he ever got.

Albus smiled reassuringly. "I don't believe so, Severus. The boy appeared quite uninterested in them. I think he's rather ashamed of having them as parents. I cannot blame him."

"So he won't do whatever it is they want him to do—release them, open the gates—something to assist this grand scheme. Undoubtedly word will get back to the Dark Lord—"

"Voldemort."

"—and he'll switch to another plan, which he again will not tell me of."

"This is becoming extremely problematic," said Albus, nibbling on a small cake. "We need more information. Have you lost his trust?"

"I know Lucius suspects me." Severus sounded very worried. "I think it's only a matter of time before he has enough of You-Know-Who's—"

"Voldemort's."

Severus sighed. "—of his ear to make him suspect me as well." Severus took a large gulp of tea, picked up a biscuit, and ate it whole. "I had to tell...him...about Wendy, and about our—er—encounter."

"How did he respond?"

"He seemed eager for me to tell him it was merely a fling, nothing important. I think if he knew how much—how much she means to me," Severus' voice wavered slightly, "he would have Draco assassinate her in class first thing. Lucius would, too."

"Does Draco know the Unforgivables, Severus? Is there a chance of such an assassination attempt?"

"I see no reason why he would not. He is a Death Eater, in everything except the Mark. A Junior Death Eater, if you will."

Albus sighed heavily. "Do you think Wendy is in any actual danger?"

Severus ran a hand through his hair again as he thought, and Albus noticed that it looked significantly less greasy than before. "No," Severus said finally. "The Dark Lord—"

"Voldemort."

"_Why_ do you do that, Albus?" Severus burst out.

"Because fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. Saying Voldemort's name will not make him materialize out of thin air, or call him into your mind to possess you," said Albus calmly.

"I can't exactly go around thinking of him as—as—" Severus' voice dropped to a whisper. Albus perked his ears up. "—Voldemort," he breathed, and Albus beamed, "without having him knowing it. I feel perfectly comfortable saying it to you, but if I start to think of him as that, he'll see it in my mind very easily. The identity of the person you are facing is an extremely difficult thing to mask."

Albus let it go. "Is Wendy in any danger?" he repeated.

"I don't think so," Severus said, though he sounded uncertain. "The Dark Lord said she was unimportant. He appears to be placing all his faith on the Death Eaters inside the school."

Albus sighed heavily again and unwrapped a lemon drop. "Were you able at least to learn when this proposed plan will go into action?"

"Not before Christmas, for sure," said Severus thoughtfully. "No, thank you," he said, as Albus offered him the plate of candies. "He told Draco to gradually tone down his prominence, which is another reason why Wendy is probably safe. Attacking her in class would draw quite a lot of attention. I don't imagine he can change his image successfully before Christmas." He took a sip of his tea. "And losing Rigel's support will certainly delay things. Messages will need to be sent back and forth between Draco and his father."

"Draco cannot be allowed to see any of the imprisoned Death Eaters," warned Albus.

"Of course not," said Severus. "Why can't we move them elsewhere? Lock them up someplace secret, and let Draco think that they're still in the dungeons? If we could move them away from Hogwarts without anyone knowing?"

Albus crunched his candy thoughtfully. "Azkaban is lost, of course. I suppose we could turn them over to the centaurs," he mused.

Severus snorted. "You'd have no Death Eaters to worry about anymore, that's for sure."

"But we would lose any hope of liaison with the centaurs." Albus chose another lemon drop.

Severus _harrumphed_ into his cup of tea.

Albus raised an eyebrow at him.

"Nothing," Severus said innocently.

"Someplace secret," murmured Albus, crunching into the new candy.

"Unplottable, ideally," added Severus, the teacup over his mouth as he drained it. "And hard to get into. With only one access to the outside world, and that completely controllable."

"Underground?"

Severus snorted and set down the teacup, picking up a new stack of essays and searching for his marking quill, which had disappeared under the lemon drop wrappers. "It's all very well to dream. They'll have to stay in the dungeons, guarded night and day." He shuffled some papers. "Can't we get some trolls? We're never going to find another prison."

But Albus smiled benignly. "Yes, we are," he said. "And they're going to be furious when they learn what it is, and _who built it._"

Severus' jaw dropped. "You're not suggesting..." he began.

Albus nodded. The shell-shocked look on Severus' face was priceless.

"Well, Potter will be glad to be involved, at any rate," Severus said snidely.

Lucius Malfoy stared at the floor of the Rear Small Drawing Room, lost in thought.

He was very glad to be out of Azkaban. Even with fewer dementors, and with his fellow Death Eaters lurking around, it still was a prison, cold and uncomfortable. With winter drawing in every week, Lucius wanted to be at his own home, with his own servants and his own fireplaces. He was particularly desirous of gaining access to his library. Seeing his son occasionally was pleasant as well.

But Draco—Draco had become a problem. The boy was far too eager to please and, although he had inherited his father's cruel streak, had not inherited his father's discretion. The number of owls Dumbledore had sent—_Dear Mr. Malfoy, Please remind your son that duelling is not permitted at Hogwarts, particularly not in the corridors, and particularly not with first-years._ Lucius shook his head in dismay.

The boy was too arrogant. Arrogance was a virtue, yes, but only when tempered with discretion into a casual disdain that reminded others they were not good enough. It didn't do to be arrogant in the fashion that put you above others: that was mere snobbery, a useless social trait. Arrogance was only useful if it made lesser folk remember their places.

If Draco didn't learn to calm his eagerness, he would certainly be dead before the age of eighteen. Once the boy turned seventeen, Lucius was sure that the Dark Lord would no longer be as indulgent, as gentle, with him. Either Draco would learn the hard way, as a crumple of blood and piss and snot surrounded by jeering Death Eaters, or he'd miraculously begin to observe his father's demeanor and imitate. Monkeys could imitate—Muggles could imitate. Why could Draco Malfoy not imitate his father? Why did he have to be such an insult to the Malfoy name?

It bothered him.

So he stared at the floor.

And as Lucius stared at the floor, his frown deepened.

There was mud on the unfinished pine planks—the extremely valuable pine planks that had been imported from Norway and carefully treated with Anti-Rot and Anti-Slip charms. The Anti-Stain charms found in the rest of the house were not necessary here, because any torture that occurred in the Rear Small Drawing Room was fleeting, unlikely to result in emissions from the victim.

If mud wasn't cleaned up soon, it might leave a stain. Lucius started to summon a house-elf, then remembered there weren't any left. Would he have to clean it up himself? What a disgusting concept.

For that matter, how did the mud get there? The garden path was paved with crushed seashells brought in from the Mediterranean every summer, spelled not to track inside. The only way the mud could have gotten into the room was on someone's shoes.

Lucius glanced at the fireplace, which was now nothing but cold ashes. He thought of the dead rabbit thrown onto it earlier, and remembered Severus' claim that he'd found it on the garden path.

Lucius' frown turned into a cold smile. Severus used to pay much more attention to details.

"Balfoy's back." Hermione had a cold, and her ears were steaming as she served herself porridge at breakfast. Harry thought she looked a bit like a hairball on fire, but he wasn't going to mention it.

"I don't see him," Ron said as he craned his neck to look around at the Slytherin table

"Doe, he's ub in the Hosbital Wig," she said. "Elvish stomach flu," she added, when Harry raised his eyebrows enquiringly at her. "Says he caught it from his modder. I saw hib while I was getting sub Pepper-Up this bornding."

Harry couldn't resist a snicker. Elvish stomach flu!

"Don'd you feel even the least bit sorry for hib?" she demanded, then sniffed loudly and chunkily. "Vomiting day and night?"

"No," said Harry and Ron together, then Harry added, "Why, do you?"

"Erm—a bit," she confessed.

"Really?" he said seriously. "After all his father's done—"

"He's dot his fodder!" she exclaimed. She pulled a large plaid handkerchief from her pocket and blew noisily.

"Acts like it, the pompous git," said Ron.

"But he's not a Death Eater," she said.

"Not yet," said Harry darkly.

Ron picked up a piece of toast and crammed it whole into his mouth. "Betty wulb sunsit urns sivnton," he said, spattering crumbs all over the table.

Hermione looked revolted.

Ron swallowed. "I bet he will be as soon as he turns seventeen," he repeated.

Hermione harrumphed. "Well, I for one think it's dreadful that his father's training him to follow in his footsteps. The worst my parents could do is send me to dental school."

Harry had never thought of that, and realized it was true. He thought of the Dursleys—as much as he hated them, the worst they could have done would be to keep him from the magical world. But to be raised with the expectation of becoming killer? "Yeah, okay," he said grudgingly, and felt a reluctant pang of sympathy. "But he's still mean, and he's still responsible for Luke's death."

Ron looked at Hermione as if to say, _Get out of that one,_ then attacked another piece of bacon.

"I know," she said thoughtfully. "I doe he's resbosible. Id's just..." She paused, frowning, and blew her nose again before continuing. "It's just that as much as I dislike him, and as much as his father is, well, evil, and that he's an arrogant git who thinks that being pureblood is the only important thing there is—I feel sorry for him. For not having any choice in his life. No say in his career. That's all."

Harry's pang of sympathy for Malfoy had come and gone, so he just grunted to this. Glancing over at Hermione, he saw that her eyes were fixed on Slytherin table, towards Crabbe.

"His cronies must be glad," Harry said. "They seemed a little lost without him."

"Yeah," said Ron, "I bet they had trouble getting from one room to another without having Malfoy to follow."

"Now that Malfoy's back, we ought to keep an eye on them," Harry said, struck by a thought. "If they've turned dark—"

Hermione rounded on them. "You two are so—so—prejudiced!"

"What?" said Ron.

"Just because someone's in Slytherin doesn't automatically make them evil!"

"Yes it does," said Harry. "Name me one non-evil Slytherin."

"Professor Snape."

"He's still a git," said Ron.

"But he's not evil," Hermione insisted. "He's on our side," she whispered, because the table was starting to fill up as the clock moved around to eight-thirty.

"He's a professor, he doesn't count," said Ron. "Harry's right—all the Slytherins are evil."

"Blaise." Hermione said the name smugly.

Harry had never heard the name. "Who?"

"Blaise Zabini."

"Who's that?"

Hermione looked triumphant, and jerked her head over at the Slytherin table. "See that guy with the curly black hair, sitting by the end?"

Harry looked. "I've never noticed him before," he confessed.

"Exactly," Hermione said. "He's not one of Malfoy's friends; he hasn't done anything at all. I've watched him in Potions—he keeps his head down and does his work."

"All right, all right," Harry said. "So not every Slytherin is evil. But those three," he said, jerking his head towards Crabbe, "they've never been anything but mean and nasty."

Hermione made a noise of dissent.

Harry peered at her. She looked distant, and he was struck by a sudden knowledge, a flash of images that told him vaguely that she wasn't being completely forthright. "There's something you're not telling us," he said flatly.

"What?" she said, suddenly flustered. "What makes you say—I'd never—"

"Huh?" said Ron. "What are you on about, Harry?" He looked closely at Hermione, who was quite flushed. "You haven't been keeping—Have you?" Then he looked at Harry. "How do you know?"

"I think it's a side effect of the Occlumency," Harry said, still looking intently at Hermione, who avoided his eyes. "You're hiding something, aren't you? I can tell, I'm not sure how, but I can tell."

"I'm not—"

"Hermione," said Ron. "Spit it out."

Her face reflected an internal struggle of conscience. "Oh, all right," she said at last, "but don't blame me if it's confusing—it doesn't make sense to me, either." She lowered her voice and explained how Crabbe had approached her in the library to tell her about the Amorousness Additive and its subsequent botch-up.

"Figures, doesn't it?" said Ron when she'd finished. "Only Malfoy would do something like that."

"That creep," said Harry angrily. "We ought to tell Dumbledore."

"I suspect he already knows," said Hermione. "Snape," she mouthed at them.

"But he always sticks up for Malfoy in class, what makes you think—" began Ron.

"Oh, Ron," she said, "of course he has to stick up for Malfoy in class. Can you imagine what would happen if Malfoy's father became suspicious of his loyalties?"

"But what about Crabbe?" asked Harry, before Ron could argue back. "Why did he tell you?"

"I don't know," Hermione said. "I think he was just about to tell me something important when Ron found me."

Ron looked slightly pink. "He looked like he was threatening you to me."

"I think he doesn't want to be discovered," whispered Hermione. "I mean, if he's not planning on being a Death Eater, then it's going to be pretty dangerous for him in the Slytherin common room if everyone knows it, won't it? I know not all of them are ... well, evil... but lots of their fathers are."

"Next thing you know, she's going to start the S.P.O.S.—Society for the Protection of Slytherins," Ron said to Harry, mouth twitching. "I reckon Crabbe can take care of himself."

"Ron, I'm not going to start another society, I just—" Hermione began, but she was cut off by the arrival of the post. Her copy of the Daily Prophet arrived, and, with a disapproving noise to Ron and Harry, she disappeared behind it.

Harry, glad to drop the subject, awkwardly started talking about the Quidditch practice that evening. Ron felt that they ought to run several practice matches and thought perhaps the Hufflepuff team would help; Harry felt that the Beaters needed the most practice and they ought to ask Madam Hooch if they could borrow two extra Bludgers.

"This is interesting," Hermione's voice said.

"What?" Ron asked.

"In the Society column—"

"Rubbish," muttered Ron.

Hermione ignored him. "In the Society column," she persisted, "it has the 'best-dressed witches of the year' listing. Number one is some witch in London, never heard of her. But number two—'Narcissa Malfoy.'"

"So?" said Harry.

"Listen to this," she continued, her voice still excited, "'Mrs. Malfoy was seen at Florean Fortescue's in Diagon Alley only yesterday, wearing a splendid set of silk robes in icy blue, trimmed with silver piping,' blah, blah, blah."

"Er, Hermione—why do we care what Mrs. Malfoy was wearing?"

"We don't care what she's wearing," said Hermione with a don't-you-see-Ron sort of voice, "—if she was seen in Diagon Alley yesterday, there's no way Malfoy could have caught Elvish stomach flu from her. He's on his first day. It has an incubation period of only a few hours, so he _must have caught it yesterday."_

"So?" said Harry again.

"So," said Hermione triumphantly, "what was Mrs. Malfoy doing in Diagon Alley if she was sick with Elvish stomach flu? You can't go more than five feet from a toilet when you've got that. It's strange, isn't it?"

"I suppose," said Ron, though he gave Harry a look that said he really didn't think it was that interesting.

Just then, Ginny walked up. "Hey, Harry," she said.

"Hi," all three of them said.

"We need to practice tonight," Ginny said.

"Yeah, I know," said Harry. "Ron wants to run some practice matches with the Hufflepuffs—"

"What?" Ginny asked.

"Ron wants to—"

"What does Ron have to do with practicing?"

Harry stared at her. "He's on the team—he's our Keeper, remember?"

Ginny looked confused for a moment, then laughed. "No, I mean our piece."

"Oh," said Harry, with sudden realization. "I was talking about Quidditch."

"I know," she said. "But the concert's less than a month away."

"You two doing a duet?" Ron asked slyly.

"I'm accompanying her aria," Harry explained. "Wendy assigned us to work together."

"She says he's the best harpsichordist in the school," said Ginny.

Harry went rather red. "After practice all right?" he asked Ginny, while Ron sniggered.

Ginny nodded and, with a cheery wave, left to sit with her friends.

"Aren't those practice rooms—er—cosy?" Ron said, smirking.

"Hermione, can I borrow that paper?" Harry asked.

Hermione was immersed in the International pages. "Hm? What?" she said, blinking up at them.

"Or, better yet, will you thwap Ron on the head for me?" he asked.

"What?" she said, obviously not having followed the conversation.

"Never mind," said Harry resignedly, while Ron roared with laughter.

"Hey, Harry, you've got an owl," Ron said, when he'd stopped laughing. "Wonder why it was late?"

"Oh, thanks." Harry took the letter Ron was holding out to him.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

Please meet me in my office at your earliest convenience. There is a matter of utmost urgency only you can deal with. The password is "Canary Cream."

Albus Dumbledore  
"I have to go and see Dumbledore," Harry said, bemused.

"What?" exclaimed Ron and Hermione together.

"What's it say?" asked Ron. Harry passed it over. Ron read it quickly, then passed it over to Hermione, who frowned at it.

"I wonder what he means—something only you can do?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Ron. "He needs Harry to look into You-Know-Who's mind."

"Dumbledore can do that himself," said Harry. "Remember, he's a Legilimens."

"Oh, right," said Ron, looking put out.

"And, besides, that's extremely dangerous," said Hermione, "so Harry wouldn't even do it if Dumbledore asked, would you, Harry?"

Harry thought about this for a moment. Would he? He desperately wanted to feel like he was doing more to help in the fight. Would he take risks like that? If Dumbledore asked him to drop into Voldemort's mind, would he? Sirius would do—would have done—whatever Dumbledore asked, though...

"No, I wouldn't," Harry said finally. "Maybe he's finally going to explain what's been going on lately," he added bitterly. "One professor dead, one traumatized, and we still have Wendy here—why hasn't she gone back to the States? It'd be safer there."

"No, it wouldn't," said Hermione. "The Death Eaters know about her already; I'm sure she's still a target. She's safest here."

"I suppose," said Ron. "Why, though? Doesn't she have stuff to do? —Where are you going?" he asked Harry, who had abandoned his eggs and was collecting his bag.

"I ought to go and see Dumbledore," Harry said, swinging his bag over his shoulder. "Matter of urgency, he said. Tell Flitwick if I'm late, all right?"


	15. I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas

**Chapter 15: I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas**

"Do you really think that's wise, Albus?" asked Minerva, studying the parchment in front of her. 

Wendy glanced over at her. The first staff meeting of December had been insufferably boring, as usual, until Albus had suddenly announced that the last Friday of classes would feature a concert by all the students. Wendy knew of the concert, of course; she'd been planning it for weeks. The teachers ought to have known of it, too; they'd been complaining about it for weeks. But that didn't seem to be Minerva's problem. 

Albus was opening the concert to the public. 

"It's very sweet of you, Headmaster," Severus added with immense distaste, "but inviting the entire wizarding world to simply walk in to the school?" 

"We should at least confiscate wands," Minerva said. "Who knows whose parents might turn up...?" She and Severus exchanged a dark look. 

"My dear teachers, I have every confidence that there will be no trouble at the concert." Albus added two sugar cubes to his half-drunk cup of tea. 

"Do not be so sure," said Sibyll Trelawney in her usual ethereal tones. "I foresee a great darkness ahead," she continued, thoroughly rolling the r's. 

"That wouldn't be nightfall, would it?" said Severus acidly. 

Wendy fought back a giggle. Sibyll had, with great relish, told Wendy that she'd foreseen Luke's death months ago, and had withheld the sad knowledge out of respect for "delicate senses." At the time, Wendy almost believed her but, as the weeks passed, Sibyll merely reminded her more and more of the old man selling Tarot readings for ten dollars on the corner of Telegraph and Durant in Berkeley. 

Sibyll glared at Severus, but fell silent. 

"Professor, I can get some more people from the Ministry," said Tonks, who was sitting two seats down from Wendy. "I might not be able to get more than a few--Kingsley's a sure thing, but--" 

Wendy looked around at Tonks. They'd been extremely polite to each other since Tonks had brought Luke's... since Halloween. 

"Thank you for the offer, but Aurors will not be necessary," said Albus. He took a sip of his tea, pursed his lips thoughtfully, and added another sugar cube. 

"Why hold the concert in the first place, I'd like to know," said Calcula Vector, shooting Wendy an unfriendly look. "The students have been falling behind on their homework, Albus! Rehearsals every evening--" 

"--and the Quidditch teams have had to squeeze in practices on weekend evenings!" That was Hooch. 

"The concert will take place as scheduled, and the wizarding community is invited." 

"But, Albus--" said a significant portion of the staff. 

Albus rose from his chair and began to pace the room, giving Wendy the feeling they were about to learn something very important. 

"I know that all of you have, from the very start, objected to the addition of music to our syllabus," he began, his voice calm and measured. 

There were many nods and mutters; everyone looked at Wendy, and several people glared. 

"Though it is admirable that you all desire, in these troubled times, to focus on traditional magic and defense, you are nonetheless misguided." Albus held up a hand to stifle the outcry. "When I hired Luke, I knew it would upset many at the school and in the Ministry. And it did--Fudge himself came to my office and objected most forcefully. And yet it was necessary to hire a Muggle to do this job." 

That was new information to Wendy. She'd wondered, many times, why Albus hadn't just taken someone local, perhaps that woman who was teaching Ginny Weasley. 

"Art music has become so lost in our community," Albus continued, "that it is only children who ever receive any sort of training, and the training they do receive is extremely basic and practical. They simply learn how to play instruments, or sing. No one ever tells them of the rich history that Muggles and wizards created together. The splitting of the wizarding and Muggle worlds meant that the creation of art music fell largely on the side of the Muggles. They, having no understanding of how music could affect the universe, replaced the pure magic of music with a sort of composer-worship, in which art itself was seen as a force of nature, something the composers only could interpret and explain, something they had to follow. The future of art became a point of debate, and music became simply a platform from which various composers preached their ideas. This split has had drastic consequences for our understanding of how magic works, and it is vitally important that we reheal it." 

"But why _now,_ Albus?" complained Sprout. "I've never questioned your appointments before, and I didn't object this time, but it simply doesn't make sense to do it now, with You-Know-Who on the rise again." 

"Quivisianthe, please. I will explain." Albus waved his hands placatingly. "It's been many years since we sang the school song, do you recall?" 

Many people rolled their eyes, and Minerva muttered, "That piece of rubbish." 

"And every time we sing it, the students all choose their own tunes, yes? It's cacophony." 

"Too right," said Tonks quietly, snorting. 

"Have any of you ever paid attention to the magic levels in the Great Hall when the students are singing their hearts out on their favorite tune? I didn't think so. I have. It's very powerful. It is a mess, naturally, but it is extremely powerful." 

"So you brought the Muggles here to teach them how to sing, just so they could all sing the school song together?" sneered Professor Sinistra. 

"We could do that," said Albus, looking thoughtful. "I'd never considered that, thank you. However, the school song was not written by a craftsman of any sort. Even with the most well-written tune underneath it, the words are simply not enough to induce any focused magic." He paused. "I think. 

"What I brought Luke here to do, and what Wendy has continued to do, is to teach the students about music and about the craftsmanship that lies underneath it, so that they may understand that there are more sources of power in the universe than their wands or their cauldrons. Not only do our wizarding children need to relearn the magic in music, but if that same knowledge can filter through the Muggle community, it will help our fight against Voldemort--" Professor Vector's teacup slipped from her hand and splashed all over her robes. "--immensely," he finished. 

"Very beautiful, but what use is that going to be if half a dozen Death Eaters decide to walk into the school?" said Minerva tartly. 

Albus didn't respond. He turned to Wendy. "How are the students doing with their pieces?" 

"Oh--they're doing pretty good," Wendy stammered. She hadn't expected to be put on the spot. "They're...learning, and practicing. Most of them are almost ready, I think. Some finishing details, phrasing, ensemble work--" 

"I'm sure it will be a lovely concert," said Minerva, looking at Wendy, "but _what about security?_" 

"If the students are prepared, security won't be a problem." Albus smiled at Wendy. 

With that, the subject was dropped and the meeting broke up, though Wendy could hear the teachers muttering to each other. "I'd better teach all my students the Stunning Spell," Tonks said darkly to Sprout as they left. 

"Albus," said Wendy, a little desperately, "are you sure of this? I mean, if the Death Eaters--if Lucius Malfoy... wouldn't it be a good idea to have at least a few Aurors around just in case?" 

Albus smiled benignly at her. "Everything will be fine, Wendy. Just keep teaching the students." 

Though his gaze was calm, Wendy wasn't reassured. _No pressure,_ said a voice in her head. It reminded her of Luke. _He's just dumped the security of the school in your lap, told you that the students need to give a good concert to keep the school safe. No pressure._

Severus joined her as they left the room. "Do you know what he's talking about?" she said. 

"I'm not sure," he confessed grudgingly. 

"Luke--" It was still hard to say his name. "Luke mentioned to me the Bach Effect, and we've both seen it, but how powerful can music be against something like the Cruciatus Curse?" Wendy shuddered in remembrance. "I mean, if it was so powerful, why couldn't I just sing to block it?" 

"Maybe you could have," said Severus, his lips twitching. 

"That's not something to joke about," she replied angrily. "If it was, why didn't Albus tell us beforehand? If singing or something could have kept Luke alive--" she broke off, feeling pricks of water behind her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, turning her head away. 

Severus drew her to the side of the corridor and turned her around to face him. "There's nothing to be sorry about," he said, and his face was intent, almost stern. "You miss him." 

"Yeah," she said miserably. "It still hurts. Not as much, I think, like the pain isn't so _there_, but it's still there." 

"Believe me, it will always be there," said Severus in an uncommonly emotional voice, which made Wendy look curiously up at him. "I have lost ... people I ... people I cared for, before." He shrugged in an attempt at carelessness, though his eyes glittered and he blinked. "It's in the past." 

"But the pain never goes away." 

"No, it doesn't." 

They stood in silence. "I need a hug," Wendy said softly. It was something she often said to Luke--_had_ often said to Luke. She closed her eyes against the grief. 

Severus enfolded his voluminous black robes about her. His body was familiar, and their one night was suddenly jerked forward in her memories. And with the thought of that night came the remembrance that it had been the last time she'd seen Luke, and ... Wendy cried into his chest for a while. It was all so damned confusing. She loved Luke. She had loved Luke, and of course she still loved him--except that he was dead, and she couldn't love a dead person. She loved his memory, and his memory was painful. Life moved on, too, and Severus seemed willing, if reluctant, to be affectionate and kind. Here he was, hugging her for comfort. If he was sexually attracted to her, then it would surely be uncomfortable to simply hug her, be so close to her and not be able to do anything more. 

But there was no way for Wendy to assume anything--after all, she'd requested a friend in him, and Severus had stuck to that role, keeping all their interactions verbal and oddly formal. 

Yet here he was, hugging her, stroking her hair awkwardly and not speaking. He couldn't be accustomed to this role. 

When Wendy felt better, she sniffed, said, "I'd better go grade some essays," and turned to leave. 

"I have marking to do, as well," Severus said, in a guarded voice. 

Wendy paused. "Would you like to join me? I'd welcome some company." She meant it. "Why don't you go get your papers and come up to my room in a few minutes?" 

"I'll do that." 

  
Harry found that Wendy wasn't that great of a harpsichord teacher, but he continued with it because... he wasn't quite sure why. 

Maybe it was the confident look Dumbledore always sent his way across the Great Hall. Harry kept feeling that Dumbledore placed more and more of his faith in Harry as the savior of the wizarding world, and Harry resented this. Still, he continued practicing. 

It was weird, though. Every time Harry entered one of the small closets that had been added into various empty corridors as practice rooms, it was as though a new persona settled over him. As though Harry Potter, wizard, vanished and became Harry, the music student. A weight came out through his feet and a new energy crackled in his fingertips. His wand he placed on the music desk, just in front of the parchment he was playing off of, and his bookbag he dropped in a corner. 

He preferred to be alone during these moments, and if Ginny happened to accompany him into the room--which happened whenever they rehearsed--he vaguely felt violated. He didn't mind, really, but time with the harpsichord was his own. 

Harry pulled out the cheat sheet Wendy had given him for learning figured bass. 

"I'm sorry," she'd apologized, handing him the scroll after a first perfunctory lesson, "but this is the best I can give you. I'm not Luke, and anyways, the only way to learn it is to do." 

Harry had thanked her, stuffed the scroll into his bag, and set off for Potions, where Snape had proceeded to spend an hour and a half insulting Harry. 

But now, Potions was over, and Harry was going to take out that scroll and spend a pleasant hour or two alone, studying it and trying to create accompaniments. 

He unrolled the parchment and stuck it to the desk with a Temporary Sticking Charm. They technically weren't supposed to do this, but it worked, and the residue came up pretty easily. Filch hadn't complained yet, anyways. 

"Let's see," Harry muttered, glancing at the first bass line, just a string of notes with little numbers written underneath. "Nothing under the note means a five-three chord, so, just the normal chord... What's the key? C major." He played a C chord, then looked back up at the bass line. "Then a six means six-three, first inversion... and if it's a sharp, it's normally a six-three..." 

The line went C, B, C. Simple, with basic tonic and dominant chords, I and V in the new system. Then C, G, C, then C, F, G, C: I, IV, V, I. Harry had to keep himself from spiffying up the rhythm, because that last set sounded so much like Muggle pop music. 

_Maybe I am talented,_ Harry thought with a smile, as the chords fell easily under his fingers. He glanced down and, on a whim, tried the bottom line. What did the cross-through mean again? Altered, right, and you had to guess whether the note went sharp or flat. Was that a _nine_? Yikes. Well, he'd give it a go. 

Hm. Not too bad. 

  
Christmas approached, and one day the school woke to find itself snowed in. It was Wendy's first white Christmas ever, which she found delightful. Growing up in California meant snow was at least an eight-hour drive away through tortuous mountain passes. Not exactly conducive to snowmen or snowball fights. 

A few days before the concert, Wendy visited Severus in his rooms after classes, intent on dragging him outside. 

"Why?" he asked, scowling. "I have no desire to freeze my arse off and soak myself to the bone." 

"Oh, come on, it'll be fun," she pleaded. "Let's build a snowman." 

Severus' eyes popped. "A snowman?" he choked. 

"Yes, a snowman," she insisted. "Come on," she said, and clasped him by the arm, pulling him towards the door. 

"Wait," he said, pulling back, "I have to put my cloak on." 

Wendy smiled. Good. 

They traipsed out through the entrance hall and down the front steps. Several students looked at them curiously on their way in to dinner, and more than a few whispered to each other. _Let them gossip,_ Wendy thought, suddenly terribly happy. 

The sun had set, though light lingered on the grounds in a grey sort of glimmer. 

"Have you ever built a snowman?" Wendy asked him, crunching her way over to a nice patch of thick, untouched drifts. 

"No." 

"What, never? Where did you grow up?" 

"London." 

"Doesn't it snow there?" 

"Yes, but it doesn't stay on the grounds very long. And the area I lived in... was not especially friendly to children's play," he said. 

Wendy let the matter drop. "Well, where shall we start?" she asked cheerfully. 

"Start?" 

"Building the snowman--how should we start it?" 

"You're not giving up on this, are you?" 

"No. Come on, help me." Wendy bent over and rolled up a handful of snow. "I think we start by making a nice big ball for the bottom. Here--come on over, help me gather snow." 

Severus reluctantly walked over, lifting the hem of his cloak out of the drifts, his lips curling. 

Wendy was struck by a rather naughty idea. 

As Severus bent over to gather a handful of snow and shape it, Wendy took the ball she already had in her left hand, reached over with her right hand to loosen the back of Severus' robes, and shoved the snow down his back. 

Severus yelled like a startled cat, twisting around madly and flailing at his back, making Wendy laugh out loud. 

"Why'd you do that?" he roared, whipping off his cloak and still struggling to get all the snow out of his robes. "That's bloody cold, woman!" He glared at her. 

"I know!" she said unapologetically, grinning widely. "It was just so tempting!" 

Severus looked about to explode, then something changed in his expression. 

Wendy was suddenly frightened--Severus had a wand, she didn't. 

In the blink of an eye, Severus had twitched his wand, making a clump of snow stick together in a ball and hurl itself at her. 

She shrieked and clawed at her face. "That's cold!" 

"I know," he said, mimicking her. "It was just so tempting." 

"You--you--" she spluttered, wiping at her now-dripping face. 

Severus stood about ten feet from her, a genuine and rather surprised smile on his face. 

"This means war, you know," she said severely, and it was his turn to look scared. Very deliberately, Wendy bent, gathered up some snow, and shaped it into a hard ball. She hefted it in her hand as they eyed each other. 

"Oh, does it?" Severus replied, almost playfully. 

  
Albus watched from his office window as the two youngest members of his staff threw snowballs at each other. 

"Luke," Albus said heavily to the empty office. "I wonder often how you take this. She loved you, very much--and now you have to let her go, don't you?" 

One of the small silver instruments on a side table began to rattle. 

Albus turned sharply. He had been expecting this, but it was still startling. "I don't know how you managed to survive the Killing Curse," he continued. "Muggles can't turn into ghosts. That's an ability supposedly limited to wizards." 

The silver instrument tinkled and clinked in a disconcerted sort of way, and began to spin on its tip. 

"She's happy," said Albus. "She misses you--I often sense great sadness in her. But Severus loves her, as much as that man can love anyone. I rather suspect his capabilities for feeling were once much greater. Maybe Wendy will heal him." 

The top-like object spinned faster and faster, beginning to make great, agitated circles. 

"Why do you linger?" Albus asked, watching the area above the top. "What makes you stay? Did you make a choice, are you only here for a reason? What are you, Luke? Why are you here? Do you even know?" 

The top circled violently to the edge of the table and fell off. It twitched on the floor once, twice, then lay silent. The room was empty again. 

A shriek from outside caught Albus' attention, and he turned to see that Severus had tackled Wendy, who looked positively delighted at this and was snatching up handfuls of snow to stuff down his robes. 

Severus' expression, as far as Albus could make out, was intent and wondering. 

What must it be like, Albus thought, to have your ability to love thrown back in your face? What must it be like to not be loved as a child, to fall in love and be rejected, and then, just at the age where things start making sense, have to learn how to hide all emotion to stay alive? 

What would it be like, after years of not feeling anything, to be assaulted by love? 

  
In the last week before the concert was to take place, Rigel began feeling... well, _odd_ was the only word he could come up with. His dreams, which never had been pleasant, especially since the meeting with his biological parents, had become grisly and dark, with unseen screamers and a tinge of red in the vision. 

He'd learned in the first month how to put a Muffling Charm on his curtains--roommates became extremely unfriendly when woken in the night by screaming and panting three times a week--and so would sit, clutching his pillows, waiting for the panic to subside. 

It was on the Tuesday before the concert, though, that this moment of calm after the nightmare took on an odd angle. Rigel could hear Evan, Jim, and Sam breathing, and Rory snoring, yet he also thought he could hear a larger breath--the breath of the castle, almost. As though the very walls around him were pressing fingers on the base of his skull, saying, _We are here_. 

But why? Why was the castle speaking to him? And why did it send him visions of red-clouded bodies and broken faces? He almost went to Professor Flitwick, but the Christmas season was busy, and Rigel figured this was probably just an added dimension to his usual drama. Death Eater parents, and all that. 

Thank goodness he didn't have Divination, though, Rigel thought as he settled back down into his pillows. From what he'd heard, Professor Trelawney would have a field day with his dreams. 

  
Wendy was quite pleased with the hard work the students had put in for their concert. The ensembles were really shaping up--the viol consort was now able to tune all by themselves, and the madrigalists really had the flow of the style. 

On the last Friday before the official holidays, she paced around in the side chamber off the Great Hall, flexing her fingers and back. Nearby, her cello sat on its side. She was going to open the concert with the Prelude from the Fifth Suite--she'd been practicing it for over a month now. 

And the funniest things kept happening whenever she practiced. Sometimes she felt as though Luke was actually standing over her, watching her and listening to her; sometimes she simply heard his voice in her head, saying, _Yes, that was pretty good, but back in measure... uh... thirty-five, you need to--_ And sometimes she merely thought happily about him when she played. But playing, whether Bach or scales, always brought with it some sort of essence of Luke. 

It wasn't unpleasant, either, though she rather thought that the grieving process might be making her hallucinate. Late one night she'd been startled out of her wits by an unmistakeable outline of him, standing in the moonlight. 

It had vanished the moment she took a second look; she packed up and went immediately to bed, telling herself firmly that (a) she'd been up too long that night; (b) Luke couldn't possibly be a ghost--she'd asked Albus, a few weeks after Halloween, and he'd told her gently that only wizards could become ghosts; and (c) if he were a ghost, he would surely have objected to her continuing relationship with Severus and made his objections known. 

Severus. Wendy wasn't sure where to classify him. They'd begun grading essays together, sharing snide remarks about some of the students, sharing pots of tea and horror stories of teaching. Nothing had happened on the physical realm, yet. 

Except for the snowball fight, when Severus had landed on top of her, startled, happy, and as bewildered as a puppy. They'd tussled for a moment, stuffing snow at each other, and then something had clicked, something had changed. They'd become aware of each other in what Wendy liked to think of as the "me woman, you man," way. Severus had immediately clambered off her, apologizing and helping her up, but there had been a distinct moment of electricity between them, a shared look of _I want you,_ and a complete understanding of how they felt about each other: confused. 

Apart from that, their occasional moments of physical contact: taking a cup from his hands, or squeezing past him in a doorway, and, once, putting her hands on his as she tried to teach him cello--it still made her laugh, his expression of determination clashing with the horrific sounds he'd made... Those moments made her hunger for more. It felt so unfaithful, though. Oughtn't she to be wearing all black and hiding herself from the public eye? Shouldn't she be locking herself up in her rooms, seeing no-one but the students and the Headmaster? 

Occasionally when she thought of Severus, a voice that sounded so much like Luke's popped into her head; it even spoke like him. _I want you to be happy. I'm not here for you, and he makes you happy, even if he doesn't want to admit it._ It even laughed like Luke. _I'm dead; I can't do anything for you. I love--I loved you when I was alive, and you loved me. He loves you in the present. Can't you admit you love him, too?_

Wendy shook her head, to clear it. She must be going insane. There was a concert to play tonight and, as always, the show must go on. 

Severus' head appeared around the doorway of the antechamber. "How are you feeling?" he asked. 

"Nervous," she said. 

He came in and crossed to her. "You'll be fine," he said, rubbing her arms. She wanted to press in closer to his body, but resisted the impulse. "You'll be absolutely wonderful." 

"You're biased," she said, smiling. 

He glowered at her. "I have no biases. I am a researcher with impartial--" 

"Yes, yes," she said. "How is the audience?" The advertisement for the concert had been in the Daily Prophet all week. 

"Sitting." 

She rolled her eyes. "Who's there?" she asked. 

"Fudge, of course. Parents," he added. 

"The other students--the performers?" she asked briskly. 

"Nattering in the entrance hall about how nervous they--" Severus broke off. He was clutching his arm, and his face had turned white. 

"What is it?" Wendy asked. 

"It's the Mark," he said through gritted teeth. 

"Albus," she said at once. "Go see Albus." 

"No," he said curtly, rudely. "I have to go. I have to go now. If I delay, the consequences will be disastrous." 

"What, now? In the middle of the concert?--Sorry, I know that's stupid.--Will you be all right?" 

His face was unreadable. "I don't know," he said. "I may be gone for several days," he added, swiftly walking to the door. "If I'm not back in a week, go to the Headmaster." 

"Severus--" She wasn't sure what to say. Wendy didn't think she could take losing another person, waiting up nights, wondering. She followed him to the door. 

"Have a good performance, Wendy," he said gently, and, looking as though he wanted to do more, kissed her on the cheek. 

She shut her eyes and leaned into his touch. Oh, why had he waited until the risks were so high before... "Severus--be careful--" _Come back to me_, she wanted to say. 

"I will," he said gravely, and Wendy had the strangest feeling that he knew what she'd been thinking. He disappeared through the door. 

She stood for a few minutes, staring at the doorway, holding her hand up to the spot where he'd kissed her. Then, with a horrible sense of _déjà vu,_ she walked back to the cello. 

  
Hermione hadn't wanted to sing in the choir. She hadn't really wanted to do anything for the Christmas Concert beyond posting up adverts, but Wendy had been adamant that every student participate in something, and singing in the choir was about the only thing Hermione was capable of. 

"In the middle of all the altos, no one will hear you," Wendy had said with a reassuring smile. 

Hermione held back a glower, dutifully took the music, and tried to learn it. Somehow, every practice room she took wound up with an empty one on either side when she emerged. 

But here she was, clutching the music and scanning through it as though looking at it would suddenly cause it to leap off the page and sing itself. Around her, the rest of the school were warming up on their instruments, singing, chatting with each other, and laughing. Oh, yes, everyone else was enjoying this. More than half of them had grown up with some exposure to this kind of music. 

Hannah Abbott, who'd only gotten four O.W.L.s, and those in Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, was calmly sitting at one of the harpsichords and running through scales. She would be playing a long piece by some French guy or other. 

Harry and Ginny were huddled together in a corner, ostensibly going over Ginny's aria, but Hermione didn't think studying music had to be done at such a close range. 

Hermione also spotted Draco Malfoy, also clutching a sheet of choir music, lingering alone in a corner and looking sour. He'd been awfully quiet these past weeks. There had been the usual "Mudblood" and "Weasel" slurs thrown toward her and Ron, but he'd stopped trying to jinx them. She realized, too, that Professor Snape had been using him as less of an example in Potions--once Malfoy had recovered from the constant vomiting caused by Elvish stomach flu. 

Speaking of vomiting, Hermione wondered if she ought to find a bathroom, because that was what she felt like doing. 

Ron came up behind her. "You all right, Hermione?" he asked. 

"Yes," she said. 

"You look pale. Nervous?" 

"No, of course not," she lied. 

"I'm a bit nervous--it's one thing playing for the class, and for Wendy--" he gestured with the alto recorder in his hand "--but in front of the whole school?" He laughed shakily. 

"I'm sure _you'll_ be fine," she said darkly. 

He studied her. "You _are_ nervous," he said at last, a grin just under the surface of his face. "You're scared stiff, aren't you?" 

"No, I'm not--" 

He put his arms around her. "It's okay," Ron said reassuringly. "You can be nervous, you don't have to always be confident." 

_But I do,_ wailed her inner perfectionist. She hugged him back all the same. She liked having a boyfriend very much. 

Peering over his shoulder, she spotted Snape making waves through the crowd of milling students. "I wonder where he's going?" Hermione said, her nervousness forgotten. 

"Who?" asked Ron, pulling back. 

"Snape," she whispered, pointing. Snape reached the doors and, without a backward glance, opened them and slipped through. "Do you think it has something to do with--" 

"Two minutes to curtain!" interrupted Ernie MacMillan pompously. He was standing in the middle of the room, studying a large watch and looking at an imposingly stuffed clipboard. "Will everyone in the choir please line up over here?" 

"I've got to go," said Hermione. "Wish me luck, all right?" 

"Just have a good time," Ron whispered to Hermione as she moved over to take her place next to the other altos. 


	16. The Music of the Night

**Chapter 16: The Music of the Night**

Severus knew something was wrong when his blind Apparition took him to the middle of the circle of Death Eaters. He whirled around, seeing dark masks and robes, then saw that the Dark Lord had his wand raised against him.

_"Crucio!"_ said the Dark Lord.

Severus fell, gasping in white-hot pain. He screamed and, in his pain, felt the Dark Lord enter his brain. It was like being put under the Imperius Curse, only without the pleasure. Rape of the mind.

_He was making his first kill, a family of Muggles whose son had just been accepted at Hogwarts -- He was sitting in the Headmaster's office, snivelling over a cup of strong tea with brandy, confessing everything and begging for help -- He was learning Occlumency because his life depended on it -- He was looking at Lily Evans' dead body amidst the ruin of her cottage -- He was quietly celebrating with a bottle of Firewhisky that the terror of the past two years was gone -- _

He was watching a boy who looked like James being sorted -- He was helping Albus protect the Sorcerer's Stone from his former master -- He was listening to Harry Potter speak Parseltongue at the duelling club -- He was pointing his wand at Sirius Black and rejoicing that he would be the one to turn him over to the dementors, Sirius, who had not only tried to kill Severus, but had sent Lily to her death -- He was feeling his scar burn for the first time in thirteen years while Albus tried to figure out what had happened to Potter -- He was approaching the Dark Lord, paying for his treachery, begging for his life, offering his services as a spy into Dumbledore's school --

And through the blur of memories, all Severus could feel was pain and burning agony. He tried feebly to block Voldemort, and now he could think of the creature as Voldemort, because it didn't matter anymore, he was going to die, he was not going to get out of this circle alive --

_He was staring at Wendy at the door of her cottage in America -- He was giving the bumbler Luke a tour of the school -- He was explaining to Davitt Moroney his decision to torture Wendy rather than kill her, in the hopes of saving her life -- He was realizing reluctantly that he had fallen in love for the first time in sixteen years -- He was kissing Wendy and caressing her inside his rooms, wanting her and getting her --_

The pain ended; the curse had been lifted. The Death Eaters were jeering.

Lord Voldemort spoke. "So, Severus, you come like a faithful dog to your master's call?"

Should he even bother to respond? The game was up. He stayed silent.

"My faithful Death Eaters," said Voldemort to the watchers, "for the past year and a half, Severus has claimed to be one of us, to have our beliefs and desires, to wish only to do my bidding -- and yet I see in his mind that he has been the worst of traitors.

"He sent the Potters into hiding. He learned Occlumency to block his mind from mine, so that he could become a spy for the other side. I must confess that he was quite successful. I was fooled, I admit. But no longer. _Crucio!_"

Severus' screams seemed to bounce around the circle, heard and enjoyed, his agony feeding the Death Eater's appetites. Visions of the Longbottoms' lolling heads swum before his eyes. He couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything except the knives stuck in his nerves.

The curse was lifted again. Voldemort spoke, again. "Lucius has begun to pay off his debt to me, have you not, Lucius? His son has been quite informative from within Hogwarts, and Lucius has also observed suspicious behavior which he mentioned to me. I had been wondering as well, but Lucius was able to provide me with incontrovertible evidence that Severus has been serving a master other than myself -- and I learn from his mind that, even before Harry Potter, he went to none other than Albus Dumbledore and betrayed us all."

Many of the Death Eaters gasped melodramatically.

"But Severus will do one last service for me before I dispose of him." Severus raised his head and stared at Voldemort. _"Where are the Lestranges?"_

"I don't know," Severus said hoarsely, throat raw from the screaming. It was a half-truth -- he knew where they were supposed to be, but he was fuzzy on the exact geographical details.

"Liar," said Voldemort calmly. "You know. Tell me! _Imperio!_"

It was bliss. Freedom from pain, from thought.

_Where are they? Just tell me where they are..._

No, I won't.

_Just tell me where..._

No!

_Just tell me where..._

No!

"No, I won't!" he shouted.

_"Crucio!"_ said Voldemort again, and, yet again, began rifling through Severus' memories.

Severus fought madly with him, fought like a cornered cat. Blood spurted from his nose; he could feel his nether regions wet with his own wastes. Sweat broke out all over his torso, dampening his back. He didn't have the energy to feel humiliated, and felt as though his consciousness was watching the scene from about four inches further back than it normally resided. Voldemort had him at a disadvantage -- when had he started using this technique of Legilimency combined with the Imperius Curse? Bloody hell, it worked far too well. The memory, slippery in his shaking mental hands, came zooming up obediently.

_"You wanted to see me, Professor Dumbledore?" asks a black-haired, bespectacled boy._

"Yes, Mr. Potter. As I'm sure you're aware, the Lestranges are being kept in the school dungeons."

"Yes, I'd heard -- "

"We need to move them," Severus interrupts bluntly.

"And only you can open the door," Albus says.

Potter looks confused for a minute, then his eyes widen. "In there?"

"It's the best place -- completely inaccessible to most people."

"Can we get this over with, Headmaster?" Severus says. "I have lessons to teach."

"Right. If you'll go down and immobilize the Lestranges, Severus, I'll go with Harry to the bathroom. You can meet us there."

The dungeon corridors pass by with their flickering torches and intervals of darkness; the Lestranges are Stunned and put into Full-Body Binds, then levitated along in front of him towards the second floor.

The sign is still there: "Out of Order," but he ignores it, pushes open the door, and grimaces as Moaning Myrtle's sobs echo around the room.

Potter and the Headmaster stand beside the row of sinks. One of them has sunk out of sight, revealing a large round hole.

"I've seen that before," breathed Voldemort, lifting the curse.

Severus lay panting on the ground. He could smell blood and piss, sweat and feces, and the dirt in his nostrils.

"You've moved them to the Chamber of Secrets. Ingenious, really. I didn't think Albus could be so clever. They won't be able to get out, and only a Parselmouth can get in. And of course, Harry Potter and I are the only two Parselmouths in existence these days."

Severus groaned. This was definitely the end. He hadn't even been able to keep Voldemort from learning the last crucial piece of information. He knew he was going to die, tonight, without seeing Wendy one last time. Would she miss him as much as she missed Luke? He thought he might cry, and contemplated ghost-hood.

And then Severus realized that no one had confiscated his wand. He had Apparated into the circle and immediately been hit with the curse; no one had approached him since. Where had his wand fallen? Even as he thought this, he felt his its familiar length digging into his aching thigh, trapped between his body and the grass. It was still in one piece. Could he reach it in time? He had no idea how long Voldemort would want to torture him before killing him.

Severus made an effort to raise himself from the ground, faltered, and flopped back down to the catcalls of the surrounding Death Eaters. As he collapsed, his hand happened to become trapped under his right thigh. He shifted his position on the pretense of struggling to rise again and managed to get his fingers wrapped around the wand, the wood smooth under his callused fingers. 

Blessed relief. He would live after all.

"Severus, you have been a grave disappointment," Voldemort was saying. "You joined us when you were so young, so hopeful, so talented at Potions and so unfeeling. I daresay having your heart broken did you some good -- although falling for a Mudblood was rather foolish. And now, you have fallen for a Muggle. A Muggle!" He raised his head and laughed coldly. "At least Lily Evans was a talented witch, Severus. This woman is nothing. Barely better than an animal, Severus. Tell me, do you rut like beasts?"

The Death Eaters roared with laughter.

"Traitor," hissed Voldemort.

Severus spat out some blood. If he could keep Voldemort talking -- the longer, the better. "How did you find out?" he croaked.

"Lucius, my friend, do you wish to tell him?"

"If you permit me, my Lord," said Lucius Malfoy's cold, smooth voice.

Severus turned his head as far as it went to the left; he could just see a tall, thin figure step forward from the circle of onlookers.

"You yourself told us that you'd been ... ah ... _with_ the Muggle woman on Halloween; Draco has been observing the two of you at the High Table at Hogwarts. So scrupulously pleasant to each other -- but I believe his words were, 'They're worse than _Weasleys._'"

Several of the Death Eaters laughed lewdly.

"Discretion used to be one of your strong points, Severus." Lucius chuckled, but it was a cold sound. "Such a pity that you've declined so far. Associating with Dumbledore must have dulled your abilities. Anyway," he drawled, sounding like his son, "the moment I knew for sure was when you came to find Draco at the Manor. Our master had been most suspicious about the presence he'd sensed in the bushes outside, though your rabbit was quite convincing. But two things betrayed you, Severus: there was mud on my floor, and the hearth was full of ashes."

_What?_ thought Severus.

"Bones do not burn at that low temperature, Severus," continued Lucius. "Transfiguration wasn't your best mark in school, I recall. You passed your N.E.W.T. with an E, didn't you? What did you transfigure the rabbit from? A piece of plant, I suppose? You were hiding in the bushes, listening; our master arrived, and you had to distract him. Oh, it looked and smelled like an animal, Severus, but _the rabbit burned like wood._ I wondered to myself: why was a faithful Death Eater lying about his arrival? Had he heard useful information he could now relay to the other side? Of course he had -- you overheard us talking about Rigel and his poor parents. And so you scampered straight off to Dumbledore to tell him that something was going to happen. When Draco told me that the prisoners had been moved, I knew that it was on your information." Lucius spat; a gob of spittle landed on Severus' left ear. _"Traitor,"_ he hissed.

_"Traitor,"_ repeated Voldemort.

As Severus turned his head to watch, Voldemort stretched both arms out, palms up, welcoming the voices.

"Traitor," echoed the watchers. "Traitor, traitor, traitor," they chanted.

The word circled around him, bouncing from one Death Eater to another in an endless rhythm of accusation; it bound him in an agony of despair and self-recrimination. He deserved to die; he had betrayed his master and the cause; he was worse than the lowest criminal. He was a traitor...

"Traitor, traitor..."

He was worthless, he had betrayed them all...

"Traitor, traitor..."

He was a traitor... No. He was Severus Snape. He was Potions Master at Hogwarts, he helped save lives... he saved Wendy's life... Wendy...

"Traitor, traitor..."

_Wendy._

Voldemort raised his hands above his head. The chanters stopped.

Voldemort knelt by Severus' head, which was only kept from flopping face first into the mud and grass by pure force of will. "Severus, my dear Severus," he said, almost warmly. "You were once my favorite, do you know? So young, so bitter, so determined. So clever, too. Clever enough to fool me for several years, in fact. I shall miss you, my dear Severus." Voldemort stood and aimed his wand. "Goodbye."

But Severus pointed his own wand at himself...

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

...and vanished just as a jet of green light hurtled towards him.

  
Fudge squirmed in his seat. _What_ was Dumbledore playing at? First of all, the Muggle woman was still here. Her _boyfriend_ -- Merlin, how he loathed that word, with all its connotations of impermanence and fleeting, flighty, meaningless sex -- was dead, the body donated to that shocking discipline the Muggles called "science," and _she_ was still at Hogwarts. Teaching. _Music!_

Secondly, the Muggle woman was teaching... right, covered that.

No, he hadn't covered it, blast it! The Muggle woman was teaching. _Teaching!_ At _Hogwarts!_ Teaching _music_ at _Hogwarts,_ and she was a _Muggle!_ What was the whole point, Fudge wanted to know. So much for what Dumbledore had blathered about, earlier in the year -- Muggles knowing what wizards didn't, and music being magic. Music was something that came out of a wireless set, or out of the Weird Sisters' instruments. Muggles made music, yes, and recorded it on those flat little DCs and _tapes_ and gave concerts with mikeyfoons and speakeasies that often resulted in riots at night. Wizards made spells, and laws, and watched out for the poor Muggles who blundered into things they couldn't ever understand.

Thirdly, Dumbledore was presenting a concert -- a _public_ concert, no less -- of music that _that Muggle_ had made the students learn. Percy Weasley had told Fudge how excited his youngest brother was to be learning the recorder, but that it took a lot of time away from Quidditch. Taking time away from important subjects to learn a frivolity, a hobby!

A public concert! A _public_ concert? There could be any number of Death Eaters sitting in the crowd... and the number of Muggle parents who had had to be brought in specially! _Parents of Hogwarts students are not blanketed by the Statute of Secrecy,_ said Dumbledore's voice in his head. Dumbledore could stuff his Muggle-liaisons right up his...

That Muggle woman walked out on stage just then, and Fudge, uncomfortably aware that he was surrounded by Ministry members and was expected to behave, clapped politely.

She was dressed in something red and flowing, but it wasn't robes... it was pants... but it was flowing. How strange. Muggles and their fashions.

Fudge thumbed through his program. _Prelude from the Fifth Suite for Unaccompanied Cello,_ it read. _Joh. Seb. Bach (1685-1750). Wendy Maurits, cello (A. Stradivari, 1716)_

There was a single chair on the raised platform that usually supported the Head Table. The Muggle sat down, settled the cello -- rather gracefully, Fudge had to admit -- between her knees, and began playing.

Merlin, it was ugly, Fudge thought. Just playing the strings -- and what was she fiddling with on top of the instrument? He shuddered as the intervals slipped and slided and whined like tired little witches after a day in Diagon Alley.

She stopped, not soon enough in Fudge's opinion, and he was about to bring his hands together when he noticed that the rest of the audience were still looking at her expectantly. A vague memory of some childhood event trickled through his brain... oh, yes. She'd been tuning.

Now she started to play.

Fudge hated having to admit things. And now he had to admit that she played well. The opening notes were low and sonorous, heavy with portents of things coming, and then those things did come, strict and measured, but flexible as well.

And there was something funny happening.

It wasn't anything he could quite see, or feel, or hear. It felt like the mood in the Great Hall became universal, unilateral. Like everyone was listening to her, and doing nothing else, thinking about nothing else.

And then Fudge stopped thinking for a while, too.

He applauded with the rest when she stopped playing, and shook himself mentally. Of course Muggles had talents; all the energy that doesn't go into magic must go somewhere, he thought.

The Muggle, who had disappeared behind the curtain, came back out on stage, minus her cello and accompanied by Albus Dumbledore.

"Welcome," Dumbledore said warmly, "welcome, all of you." He smiled. "I recognize many of your faces -- for some of you, I can distinctly recall the very reason for such clear recognition, though you are no longer as young, nor as terrified of being expelled, as you were then."

Several people laughed.

"Welcome to our first Christmas concert," Dumbledore continued. "The lovely woman you just heard playing is our Music professor, Wendy Maurits; she has recently moved from America to take up the job, and I'd say she is doing wonderfully. Our students have been working hard for several months to learn quite a lot of music from the very beginning. Some had more experience than others; many couldn't even read music, but Wendy has brought them along nicely, and we'll be seeing the results of their efforts tonight."

The Muggle cleared her throat and looked at a program she held. "First on the list tonight," she said, in a carrying but horribly American voice, "will be Hannah Abbott, playing the _Deuxième Suite pour Clavecin_ by Jean-Henri D'Anglebert."

Dumbledore waved his wand, and a harpsichord appeared on the stage. He and the Muggle disappeared nto the side chamber.

Hannah Abbott then walked on, blond hair bound up in a loose knot, wearing lovely dress robes of deep plum. That girl was so like her mother, Fudge reflected. He could remember nine-year-old Hannah, bubbling and nervous, tripping over things. She'd grown up nicely.

Hannah seated herself at the harpsichord and began to play.

  
By the time Albus had announced intermission, Fudge was annoyed. He had been impressed. And surprised. He didn't like that combination. The two Muggles had turned out many excellent musicians, some of which had had absolutely no experience in performance before their classes here.

He accepted a goblet of punch from the Head Boy and beamed pleasantly around at the milling crowd, who were talking animatedly to each other of the concert and the success "Wendy" had achieved. They said the name so casually! _Americans,_ he thought scathingly. _Destroying such honorable positions._

The final piece before the break had been a madrigal group, singing something by... what was his name? Wilbur? Willard? Wilbye. John Wilbye. Rather fun, actually. The words were understandable, if a bit strange, and each of the emotions portrayed in the sappy poem of unrequited love had been clearly defined by the word-painting used in the music. Fudge had found his fingers tapping, and had quickly pretended to have a violent itch on his thigh.

Again, there had been a subtle layer of something else.

He wasn't going to call it magic.

Fudge managed to avoid talking to many people during the intermission. Unfortunately, he couldn't avoid the Weasleys, and had to congratulate them on the lovely performance their youngest son had given, some recorder sonata by some French guy: Lwahlay, no, Loeillet, funny spelling. But he was back in his seat in time to appear absorbed in the program when everyone else filed back into the Great Hall.

The Muggle woman appeared on stage; everyone clapped. Fudge put his hands together once or twice, unenthusiastically.

"To open the second half of our program," she said -- oh, how he hated the American 'r'! -- "we will have the Hogwarts choir, singing several selections from Johann Sebastian Bach's St. John Passion. Normally this piece requires three hours of performance, but, since this concert is already very long, we'll just give you some highlights."

A few people laughed; Fudge skimmed his program. There was a text and a translation.

Christus, der uns selig macht,  
Kein Bös' hat begangen,  
Der ward für uns in der Nacht  
Als ein Dieb gefangen,  
Geführt für gottlose Leut  
Und fälschlich verklaget,  
Verlacht, verhöhnt und verspeit,  
Wie denn die Schrift saget.

_Christ, who makes us blessed  
and has done no wrong,  
was for our sake, in the night,  
seized like a thief,  
taken before unbelievers,  
and falsely accused,  
derided, jeered at, spat upon,  
as the Scripture tells us._

He snorted. Trust a Muggle to choose such religious lyrics. They had no sense of real awe.

The choir started singing. 1

Fudge found that there were tears on his face. And he was thinking of Harry Potter. And he didn't speak any German.

"Kein Bös' hat begangen," _and has done no wrong_... "Und fälschlich verklaget, Verlacht, verhöhnt und verspeit," _and falsely accused, derided, jeered at, spat upon..._

Fudge surreptitiously wiped the tears from his face on the pretense of picking something out of his eyes.

The last chord of the choir died away; the piece had been no longer than sixty seconds. Many sniffles were heard echoing before the applause broke out, thunderous. Beside him, old Griselda Marchbanks shouted at her neighbor, "Just like that poor Potter boy! No one believed him, did they? And now where are we?"

Fudge ground his teeth, but quietly.

  
Vincent Crabbe knew he ought to be nervous, but he wasn't. He knew this piece; they'd practiced it, Colin knew his solo, and Wendy had glowed with pride at the final rehearsal the previous afternoon.

He heard Dumbledore announcing the piece, "_Mein teurer Heiland,_ from J.S. Bach's St. John Passion, with Vincent Crabbe, baritone, and Colin Creevey, cello," took a deep breath, and walked out onto the stage.

He'd never had so many people watching him before, so many people clapping at him. It was wonderful, it was encouraging, it was... it was like the first time he'd cast a successful spell. Everyone wished him the best, everyone was rooting for him. He squinted into the audience and saw his mother and Auntie Mabel sitting a few rows back. They waved at him, and he gave them a smile.

Vincent heard a disturbance behind him and watched as Colin Creevey came struggling out onto the stage with his cello, which had somehow returned to full size.

The chorus tittered; trust Colin to mess up something as simple as a basic _Reducio._

"Help!" Colin mouthed, in the general direction of the chorus.

Hermione Granger shook her pretty head, sighed, pulled out her wand, pointed it at the cello and said, very clearly, _"Reducio."_

The cello obediantly shrank to a size Colin could manage, and he sat down on the chair. Then he looked stricken again, shot an apologetic look at Wendy and Crabbe, and hustled off stage to a few snickers from the audience.

Blushing furiously, he returned with a long metal rod which he inserted into the end of the cello.

Vincent remembered: Colin was too short to manage the cello with just his legs, so Wendy had, after much dithering, eventually allowed him to use an endpin, shaking her head and muttering something about "authenticity..."

Colin fiddled with his bow, tuned, and gave Wendy a nod to show he was ready.

Wendy, in turn, shot a look at Dumbledore, who was seated at a small organ on one side of the stage, and Dumbledore nodded as well. Dumbledore leaned around Wendy to look at Colin, who grinned, wriggling slightly, then tensed his body slightly, moved his head up, and then back down to cue the tempo.

Here they went. 2

Mein teurer Heiland, lass dich fragen,  
**Jesu, der du warest tot,**  
Da du nunmehr ans Kreuz geschlagen  
Und selbst gesagt: Es ist vollbracht,  
**Lebest nun ohn Ende,**  
Bin ich vom Sterben frei gemacht?  
**In der letzten Todesnot  
Nirgend mich hinwende**  
Kann ich durch deine Pein und Sterben  
Das Himmelreich ererben?  
Ist aller Welt Erlösung da  
**Als zu dir, der mich versühnt,  
O du lieber Herre!**  
Du kannst vor Schmerzen zwar nichts sagen;  
**Gib mir nur, was du verdient,**  
Doch neigest du das Haupt  
Und sprichst stillschweigend: ja.  
**Mehr ich nicht begehre!**

_My dearest Savior, let me ask you,  
**Jesus, you were dead,**  
as You are nailed to the cross,  
and have yourself said, "It is accomplished,"  
**and now live forever;**  
am I released from death?  
**in death's extremity,  
bring me nowhere but to You,**  
Can I gain the heavenly kingdom  
through your suffering and death?  
Is the whole world redeemed?  
**who have paid my debts,  
my beloved Master!**  
Because of your pain, You cannot speak,  
**Give me only what You have won,**  
but bow your head  
and silently say: "Yes."  
**I want no more than this!**_

  
Fudge listened, and was not happy. Why was the music so bloody good? How, in Merlin's name, had a Muggle managed to turn a rabble of reluctant students into a trained choir that sounded almost professional?

"Du kannst vor Schmerzen zwar nichts sagen..." _"Because of your pain, You cannot speak."_

Suddenly, Fudge's insides turned cold. He didn't know what was going on, but something, somewhere, had gone terribly wrong, and he wanted to be as far away from it as possible. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The students on stage, too, looked apprehensive. They finished awkwardly, cutting off at different times and looking nervously at Dumbledore, but he, true to form, merely beamed at them. Whispers punctuated the applause. The relieved-looking choir shuffled off stage as Professor Maurits stepped on to introduce the next performers.

"Next," she said, her voice and hands shaking slightly. She cleared her throat. "Next," she repeated, "I'd like to introduce Neville Longbottom, Jane Gamble, James Gamble, and Cho Chang, performing music for four viols by Marin Marais."

  
Wendy was mostly pleased by the way the concert was going. Her Bach had been compelling, she thought, though not perfect. There had, again, been that nagging sense of Luke-ness in the air around her. The madrigal had gone excellently, the viol consort had only had to retune four times, as compared to their usual eight, and Neville had played brilliantly, like a true master of improvisation. But still, the Minister for Magic was sitting in the third row, looking disgruntled.

At the back of her mind, she was worried about Severus... correction. She _had_ been worried at the back of her mind until that line in the last chorus. But now she knew, at the most fundamental level, that something had gone wrong, gone horribly wrong, and was desperately worried in the front of her mind.

But the show must go on. Wendy sighed. How many times had she thought that this past year? Far too many.

They had finally reached the last piece. Wendy stepped out on stage, relieved that in ten or twenty minutes she'd be able to escape to her bedroom, take off her shoes, and try to relax in a scented bath. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said to the crowd, "I'd like to thank all of you for coming tonight. We have as our final piece a very special performance by one of our most talented vocalists, Miss Ginevra Weasley, who will be singing Ariadne's _Lament_, as set by Monteverdi, accompanied by Mr. Harry Potter."

The crowd applauded, whistled, and whispered as the two students came on stage.

Harry and Ginny made a beautiful duet. Harry took his place at the keyboard; Ginny stood in front, a picture of poise and elegance in pale green. Harry looked at her, she nodded, and cued. 3

Lasciatemi morire,  
Lasciatemi morire!  
E chi violete voi che mi comforte  
in così dura sorte,  
in così gran martire?  
Lasciatemi morire

_Let me die,  
Let me die!  
Who would you wish to comfort me  
In so harsh a fate,  
In such grievous torment?  
Let me die..._

Chills ran up and down Wendy's neck and spine. The aria was gorgeous and haunting, with that incredible dissonance at the beginning. No wonder it was still around after past three hundred and fifty years. It was the most profound plea for death after losing a lover. Wendy could identify far too well. She shut her eyes against the pain and wished that Severus were here, that he would get out of whatever trouble he was in.

  
Severus made his painful way up to the school. He had mis-Apparated when he left the circle, which was perhaps fortunate. No doubt the Death Eaters were waiting for him at the gates, having assumed he would go in that way. Truthfully, he had aimed for there but because he was so exhausted had landed several miles off, outside of Hogsmeade. He could see the castle outline against the sky and, shaking with the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse, stumbled towards it.

When he hit the High Street of the village, it was past closing time for all the shops. No lights were on except in the side streets, where the handful of villagers who weren't at the concert were putting children to bed, listening to the wireless, reading, or doing anything besides struggling up to the school with what felt like a chest full of broken ribs, a nervous system that wanted to jump out of his skin, and filthy, stinking robes that he couldn't clean because Voldemort would no doubt have put a tracking charm on his wand.

He had passed the shop before he noticed it. Honeydukes.

Severus furrowed his brow in concentration and leaned against the door for support.

Wasn't there a tunnel? Wormtail had been most helpful in explaining to Voldemort about all the secret entrances into the school. Severus gritted his teeth as one of his ribs gave a nasty throb. Should he risk it? Would Wormtail think about it? Would there be more Death Eaters at the gates? It had been at least an hour; maybe by now they would have assumed that he'd splinched himself -- to be honest, he almost had -- and left.

But how would he get into the shop and into the cellar? All the doors were locked. And how could he do it without his wand?

_Ah, yes,_ he thought, relieved. He reached up to his hair and was extremely relieved to find one of them still in there. Wendy had been most insistent that he try them, and with a Disillusionment Charm on the things, no one could ever see them. He was lucky all his thrashing about in the Inner Circle hadn't dislodged all of them. 

The Weasley twins would never, ever find out about this, Severus vowed, as he jiggled the hairpin in the lock.

  
Harry had studied the music quite hard for several weeks. Reading from figured bass was a completely new concept to him: looking at notes in the bass line, seeing the little numbers, figuring out the correct chord from those numbers, and then having to create an accompaniment that sounded good -- it was all quite complicated. He had much more respect for people who could improvise, now, because not only did he have to hit the right notes, he also had to make up noodly figures and embellishments, and use the singer's melody as part of his accompaniment. And all he had on the page was the bass line and a handful of numbers.

But tonight, something was guiding his hands, literally. He'd heard Luke play like this once, and it sounded just like that. He'd discovered strange things about music and magic over the past few months, but this performance really took the cake. He wondered idly if he needn't have practiced as much.

And Ginny! What a beautiful voice. Half the audience was crying openly, while the other half looked sad and uncomfortable. The meaning of the song had never before been so clear.

As they approached the final measures, their eyes met. Harry shivered, his stomach flip-flopping.

_Misera! ancor do loco  
a la tradita speme, e non si spegne,  
fra tanto scherno ancor, d'amore il foco?  
Spegni to, Morte, omai le fiamme indegne.  
O madre, o padre, o de l'antico regno  
superbi alberghi, ov'ebbi d'or la cuna,  
o servi, o fifi amici (ahi Fato indegno!),  
mirate ove m'ha scorto empia fortuna!  
Mirate di che dual m'han fatto erede  
l'amor mio, la mia fede, e l'altrui inganno.  
Così va chi troppo ama e troppo crede._

_Poor me! I still give rise to betrayed hope,  
And has the fire of love not been extinguished yet,  
Even among all this derision?  
Death, blow out the unworthy flames.  
O mother, o father, o noble abodes of the ancient  
Realm, where I had a golden cradle,  
O servants, o loyal friends (alas, unworthy Fate!),  
Look where this cruel destiny has brought me!  
Look what pain I inherited from my love,  
My faith, and the deception of others.  
This is what happens to those  
Who love too much and believe too much._

The last notes of Ginny's voice died away, and the hall rang with silence for ten long seconds. Then all hell broke loose as the Death Eaters outside started their attack.

  
1 scroll down and click on "Disc 2," number 1.  
2 "Disc 2," number 18.  
3 track 3  



	17. Marche Militaire

**Chapter 17: March Militaire**

The concert was beautiful. Not only was the playing spectacular, but Severus had been called away to a Death Eater meeting and wasn't gazing at Wendy as though she were a particularly large piece of chocolate. In addition, the fireworks were unlike any Luke had yet seen. 

When Wendy had started her piece, her cello had begun to glow, a faint bluish pulse that danced in time to the music. Luke had previously seen glowing patterns, watching students practice, prowling the school in his semi-ghosthood. But none yet as brilliant as this. 

The Bach Effect didn't come into play this time around, which surprised him, so there were no extra voices during the fugue. 

He had become accustomed to them over the past few weeks. They hung around -- _haunted_ seemed the wrong word -- the instrument room and often flitted around the students as they practiced, echoing the music, sometimes making the instruments glow when a chord or passage was perfectly in tune or well played. 

They had now come to settle in the Great Hall, peering over Luke's shoulder as they tended to. He wanted to bat them away, but they weren't really there, so he couldn't. 

As Wendy played her final chord, there came an explosion from the cello: the pulsing light suddenly released a bluish shimmer that puffed into the air. It twinkled brightly, then dispersed. 

The next group had the same thing happen, and the next. Each performance was accompanied by a dancing glow that turned into a shimmer. By intermission, looking at the stage was like looking through a cloud of blue glitter. Pretty, but a little annoying. 

In the second half, the glowing puffs had become so prevalent that the audience was actually covered in shimmery musicomagical glitter. When Harry and Ginny walked on stage to conclude the program with her aria, Luke became aware of a disturbance in his plane of existence. 

The castle was _sighing,_ and it was becoming naked, as if its layers of clothing, or brick, or stone, were being stripped away one by one. Something was happening outside on the grounds. 

The sighing was nothing new; he'd first noticed it just a few days ago. Fleeing Albus' office from the sight of Wendy and Snape happily throwing snowballs at each other, Luke had come across Rigel Lestrange practicing recorder in the instrument room. Rigel had been looking very tired, as though his resources were stretched thin, and kept playing the same passage over and over, missing the same note each time. It was a vicious cycle, practicing when tired -- you merely rehearsed the mistakes. 

Rigel was completely covered in the magical sheen typical of students who'd been practicing for a while. But it was darker, somehow, and gave Luke the creeps. As he stared at the boy, he had to blink, because it seemed that the castle walls were bending ever so slightly inwards towards Rigel, as though trying to crush him. 

When Rigel did the run incorrectly for the seventh time, a fine trickle of dust fell down on him from the ceiling, as though the castle was indeed shifting and moving. 

Rigel dropped the recorder and let out a sharp breath. 

Another trickle of dust spattered onto the floor a few feet away. 

Rigel looked positively petrified and cast a quick glance upward just as Luke heard an immense, inaudible _sigh_ from the stones on the walls. 

Rigel's head jerked back and forth; he glanced behind him quickly, then to his left and right, and then looked up again. "I hate that," he muttered. Then, moving very deliberately, like a child who is putting his feet over the edge of the bed with full expectations that a hairy arm will shoot out from underneath to clutch his ankle, pull him under and eat him alive, he bent over, picked up the recorder, and walked over to a table to put it back in its case. 

As Rigel was cleaning the inside of the wooden pieces with a fine cloth, the castle gave another _sigh_. Rigel twitched, but did not look up. He kept his eyes very firmly forward when leaving the room. 

Luke had left, too -- he didn't like the feeling of the place anymore. 

And now here in the Great Hall was that same _sigh,_ combined with an extra knowledge that something was happening outside. It was the same kind of feeling one had when running for a bus and knowing that the driver's just going to pull away without letting you on. 

Luke flew towards one of the outer walls of the Great Hall, meaning to go outside to see what was happening, but he crashed into a barrier just inches from the stones. His consciousness quivered for a moment, as though he were a clanging bell; the world around him blurred. 

When things had settled down, Luke pushed against the barrier, but it felt like cement. He was trapped. Damn. 

The aria went on and on, but Luke paid it no mind; he flitted back and forth along the walls, trying to find a way out. The glitter now made it hard to even move; rather than just a shimmer, it was a viscous fluid in the air through which he had to swim. It spun off Harry and Ginny onstage in clumps and clouds. 

The something came closer and closer; Luke shuddered, helpless. Why couldn't he get out? Something was keeping him in -- was it the evil outside? Or was it the magic of the hall? Increasingly flustered, Luke tried to think of a way to let someone -- anyone -- know what was approaching. 

Harry and Ginny finished their piece, and the hall rang with stunned silence for precisely ten seconds. Luke held his breath waiting for whatever was going to happen to happen. 

And then the something sinister from outside burst into the Great Hall like a spear penetrating a plate of armor. The doors flew open, making a great pressure wave pulse through the blue clouds, knocking Luke out of position and throwing him violently against the barrier that surrounded the Great Hall. 

Wendy watched as several dozen Death Eaters, fully decked out in black robes and masks, stepped into the hall, kicking aside pieces of door as they went. Wendy felt an involuntary shudder pass through her. The students who had been gathered in the antechamber, waiting for the concert to finish so they could go and greet their parents, came spilling out into the Great Hall. 

The figure in the lead looked around and crowed, "The Dark Lord has risen again!" 

Wendy's stomach went cold. She knew that voice -- it was Lucius Malfoy. The last time she'd heard it, he had been telling Severus to hurry up and kill her. 

There was complete and utter silence, except for the sound of footsteps as the Death Eaters fanned out along the side wall where the door was. 

"Those of you with wands," Lucius continued, "snap them in half." 

There was a rustle; Wendy saw a few of the witches and wizards nearby reach for their pockets. Why on earth would they willingly snap their only weapons? Why weren't they charging, fighting? 

"No." Albus spoke. 

"No?" Lucius replied incredulously. "Albus, you cannot possibly hope to protect all these people --" he gestured to the crowd, which must have numbered at least a thousand, "-- by yourself." 

"I don't need to," Albus said calmly. "They are protected by the school." 

A sigh of relief ran through the hall, though Wendy wasn't sure if she believed him. She, for one, felt extremely exposed. 

Lucius made an angry noise in the back of his throat. His head wobbled about slightly for a moment, and then he called, "Draco!" 

Draco separated himself from the crowd, smirking, pushing some of the smaller students aside roughly. "Yes, Father?" he said, and Wendy wanted to slap him for his arrogance. 

"Bring me the boy," Lucius ordered. 

Draco nodded, turned smartly, and pushed his way through the crowd of students. 

Wendy tried to follow him with her eyes to see who he was looking for, but he'd vanished into the mass of black. Then there was a scuffle, a loud "Hey!", the sound of a slap, and then Draco emerged, pulling with him Rigel Lestrange. 

Rigel had been standing in the antechamber door, watching Harry and Ginny finish their song, when he heard a horrible crunching noise -- the doors to the Great Hall had burst open, allowing several dozen Death Eaters to march in. 

The students milling about behind him in the antechamber surged forward, and Rigel could no longer see anyone. He heard Lucius Malfoy cry, "The Dark Lord has risen again!", heard Dumbledore say something in return, and then heard Mr. Malfoy call for Draco. 

A moment later, Draco pushed his way through the students and grabbed hold of Rigel's arm. 

"Hey!" said Rigel, trying to pull free. They tussled for a moment, but Rigel was outmatched; Draco was much bigger than he, as well as a house more ruthless. 

Then Draco slapped Rigel; Rigel was startled and went slightly limp. Draco grabbed him by the arm and deposited Rigel at the front of the Great Hall, just underneath the stage. Rigel felt as though he had just been thrust naked into a spotlight without knowing his lines or his part or even what play it was. 

"Rigel," said Mr. Malfoy, with a veneer of warmness that chilled Rigel more than any of his nightmares ever had. "Rigel Lestrange. So lovely to see my godson again. It's been a few years, has it not?" 

It had been a few years, yes: on his ninth birthday, a cream-and-green invitation had arrived by owl, inviting "Young Master Lestrange" to "retain contact with his origins," meaning, in his opinion, to mingle with ex-Death Eaters. He'd been escorted by his foster parents to the bone-white Malfoy mansion and left for an interminable three hours, during which Mr. Malfoy had been excrutiatingly polite and distant, the perfect image of the upper-class godfather. Rigel had been very glad to leave. Even so, every detail of the visit had been chiseled into his memory. 

Standing in front of the whole school, everyone's parents, and most of the local wizarding community, Rigel said nothing. He flushed -- the crowd was staring at him. His family name and connections were something he tried to keep secret, and now everything was suddenly out in the open. Rigel found himself looking straight into the grey eyes behind the white mask. 

"I must thank you for your help," Mr. Malfoy continued, "in letting us in." 

Whispers. 

"I didn't -- I don't know -- What do you mean?" He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't cry. 

"Come now, my dear boy," said Mr. Malfoy patronizingly, "surely you've been dreaming of it lately? The darkness, the red-clouded bodies? The breathing castle walls?" 

Rigel became lightheaded. How could he know? 

"Haven't you had those visions lately?" The voice was almost gentle. "Haven't you felt like the castle was speaking to you, was crumbling away under your touch?" 

Rigel was silent. He had felt it. He had lain awake hours, every night, wondering if he was going mad because of the way the castle pressed in on him. The nightmares were no longer screaming nightmares, but sweating, moaning nightmares that left him dehydrated and clammy, nightmares he could never pull free from. It was as though there was a set task for him to do in his head each night, which was why he would lay awake for so long, hoping not to sleep, hoping to lie awake until dawn. But he always slipped away eventually. 

"Haven't you? Go on, tell me. They started when your parents arrived, didn't they? After you saw them and rebuked their offers of affection?" 

"No," he croaked, but knew his stricken expression would give him away. 

"Rigel, my child," said Mr. Malfoy, "you can tell me, go ahead. There's nothing to fear." 

The voice was so silky, so enticing... It had always been so, always pressing him to tell his deepest secrets... 

Rigel closed his eyes, swallowed, and nodded. He heard more whispers and mutters, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that Mr. Malfoy's wand was trained on him. 

"You let us in, didn't you? You know that, don't you?" 

Rigel nodded again. He knew. He saw, now. 

"You're a creature of the dark, Rigel," said Mr. Malfoy, and the warmth in his voice had become cajoling, playful. "You have no place here. Come with us, Rigel." Every repetition of Rigel's name was another thread that wound itself around his brain, befuddling and confusing him. 

Mr. Malfoy had his hand out, palm up, in a welcoming gesture. 

"You want me --" Rigel's voice cracked, "-- to join _you?_" 

Mr. Malfoy's voice was cold; his eyes, the only part visible through the mask, intense. "Yes," he said, and then raised his voice. "If you join us, Rigel," he said, turning his head this way and that at the crowd, "we will leave, killing none. If you refuse," said Mr. Malfoy, and Rigel's brain screamed with fury, "the cleansing begins here." 

Rigel swallowed -- his mind was full of horrific visions of screaming people, blackness and redness and falling brick, hundreds of dead bodies all piled on top of each other. He didn't know what was going on -- suddenly everything appeared to hinge upon him, upon some stupid decision -- 

"No." 

Professor Dumbledore had spoken, moving a step closer to Rigel. 

"Professor --" began Rigel, turning a stricken look on the Headmaster. "If -- if he's right -- then -- then I should -- I ought to --" 

But Dumbledore was shaking his head. "No, Rigel," he said. "You do not have to make this decision. The school --" 

"Stay out of this, Dumbledore!" snarled Mr. Malfoy. 

Dumbledore took another step towards Rigel -- they were now only about ten feet apart. The space between them hung in front of Rigel like a huge gulf, a huge canyon. If he could only step across it, he would be safe, he wouldn't have to worry. 

"Choose," commanded Mr. Malfoy. 

Rigel looked at Mr. Malfoy, and at the wand pointed at his heart; then he looked at Dumbledore, whose hands were loose at his sides, whose eyes were kind and gentle and understanding. Dumbledore slowly moved his head imperceptibly from left to right, once. 

And then Rigel knew what he had to do, remembered Professor Flitwick's words: _Just because they were dark wizards doesn't mean you have to be one._ And then he remembered Professor Dumbledore's oft-repeated phrase, passed from student to student: _When the time comes to choose between what is right and what is easy..._

Rigel knew what would be easy: to step forward, to accept the role of Death Eater, to join his parents and kill like they wanted him to. To continue to live, that would be the easy thing. 

He spoke one word: "No." 

He wouldn't cower. He stood straight-backed, chin set, arms at his sides, head up. 

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

The last thing Rigel saw as he crumpled to the ground through a haze of green light was Dumbledore, almost glowing golden with rage, rushing at Mr. Malfoy with his wand drawn. 

Lucius watched Rigel Lestrange's body crumple, and felt the heady rush of power that killing always brought. Muggles had drugs that could do this, he'd heard: heroin, cocaine, harsh words on his tongue. The Muggles had to suffer through needles and infections to get their highs; his was natural. The natural mastery of man over beast, of betters over lessers. 

While the boy finished falling, Lucius became aware of movement to the side. Dumbledore had charged him, looking like an enraged bull, wand drawn, power emanating from every hair of that ridiculous white beard. 

Lucius wasn't afraid of him any longer. Dumbledore had made his last mistake, letting Rigel into the school. The fool, believing that anyone with magic was worthy of entrance to the school -- giving second chances, letting the dark in. 

Rigel had been born in Azkaban, carried in the womb of a Dark Witch, and suckled for three months in the presence of dementors. He was darkness in and out, and as soon as he had seen his parents, that power had surfaced. 

Rodolphus and Bellatrix ought to be getting free any moment now; the Dark Lord knew the way into the Chamber of Secrets. And then they would join the rest in the hall, and then the dementors would come and feast... 

This would be a night to remember, a night to celebrate for years to come -- _The Downfall of Dumbledore._ It would go well in his memoirs, Lucius decided, envisioning engraved intertwined D's as a chapter heading. Green ink, of course. 

Lucius neatly sidestepped the charging old fool, leaving Avery and Goyle to deal with him. Where was that Muggle woman? He had a score to settle with her. It was her fault he'd been thrown into the middle of the merciless circle, cursed and hexed into a whimpering, blithering heap. If she hadn't escaped from them, they wouldn't be in this mess at all. 

Lucius glanced around the hall and spotted the woman looking panicked, standing a few feet in front of the stage. He grinned and strode off through the crowd. There would be time enough tonight for sport -- the Mudbloods weren't going anywhere. 

As soon as Rigel Lestrange's body crumpled to the ground, Harry's fighting insticts took over. He grabbed Ginny by the arm and pulled her off the stage and down the steps towards the antechamber where the frightened students milled. "Get the D.A.," he ordered, "and do whatever you can." 

Ginny nodded and plunged into the students. 

Hermione and Ron hurried up to him, Ron's satchel with his recorder swinging wildly off his shoulder, Hermione shedding pages of sheet music. "What are we going to do?" Hermione's voice was very high-pitched. "I can't believe he killed him, I just can't believe it --" 

"Shut up," said Harry urgently, and Hermione closed her mouth abruptly. "If we're going to get everyone out of here alive, we need to disarm the Death Eaters." 

Ron was very pale, but he gripped his wand and nodded. Hermione opened her mouth, saw the look on Harry's face, and shut it again. She, too, nodded. 

"Either that, or we need to find a way to get out of the hall -- aren't there any other doors? Damn it, we need the Map. We're wasting time," he added impatiently, as he heard a harsh voice shout, _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry tried to think quickly and clearly, but his mind was buzzing with a surge of anger towards Dumbledore. _Another bad decision,_ he thought sourly. There was no way the D.A. could take on so many Death Eaters. They needed Aurors -- wouldn't Fudge have brought a few with him? 

Harry turned away from Ron and Hermione and looked at the crowd. All he could see were heaving bodies, dodging this way and that, trying to find others, trying to stay out of the way. It was a horrible travesty of a dodgeball game, except that instead of a harmless rubber ball, it was the Killing Curse being thrown. No sign of Fudge, no hint of any Aurors apart from Tonks, and Tonks was a blur of pink. 

Harry turned back to Ron and Hermione. "Try to get all the Muggles in one spot," he said to Ron, "and get the wizards to protect them. Hermione... go with Ron. Be careful," he added, and Hermione shot a look full of meaning over her shoulder as Ron took her by the hand and pulled her away through the crowd. 

Harry's scar, which had been quiescent all evening, suddenly erupted with pain. 

The Occlumency lessons had stopped the prickling and the dreaming, so this could only mean that Voldemort was nearby. All Harry had to do to find him was to go in the direction that made the pain increase. 

Towards the doors was a good place to start. Harry set off, head throbbing. 

Wendy watched Lucius draw closer and closer through the seething, frightened crowd. _Out!_ her brain screamed, _get out of here!_ but there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to flee. _Away!_

Lucius ripped off his mask and threw it away; Wendy finally saw the face to which those nightmare eyes belonged. Cold hatred, repulsion, fury, and disgust, all chiseled elegantly into an older Draco Malfoy. 

The crowd jostled him, bringing him in and out of view as bodies hurled past, screaming, shouting, crying, pleading, begging, dying. Wendy backed up and bumped into something hard and wooden, which fell over. A chair. She pushed it aside and continued to back up, hands groping, scrabbling for salvation. 

Lucius was thirty feet from her, wand raised, eyes fixed -- Wendy bumped into the steps leading up to the makeshift stage and fell over -- He was twenty feet away -- She scrambled backwards up them, crablike -- 

Lucius climbed the steps, each footfall knocking into her brain like blocks of ice. "Filthy Muggle," he growled. 

She was backed up as far as she could get, her sweaty palms clutching at the stone floor. 

Lucius stopped, his knees three feet from her eyes. 

Wendy stared at the scene behind him, at the carnage in the hall, the students firing spells, Dumbledore rushing to and fro. She was surrounded by people, but she was alone. She was going to die, she knew it. Again. Would Davitt Moroney come to her rescue again? She doubted it. 

"You and Severus deserve each other, Muggle," he spat. "Worse than animals. Cross-species mating." 

"Where is he?" Wendy's voice came from a distant place outside of her body -- or was it the other way around? 

"We tortured him," Lucius said, and as Wendy looked up at his face, she saw the blatant hunger and love of pain in his eyes, and in the way he licked his lips. "We called him a traitor and tortured him. He screamed. He bled. He soiled himself." Lucius paused, his eyes roaming over Wendy's body. "What is it about you, Wendy?" he asked, saying the name the way one would normally say _whore._ "What is it? The sex? The Muggleness? Or is Severus just not man enough to find anything better to bed?" 

"Where is he?" Wendy repeated. 

Lucius ignored the question. "It's a pity he's not here to watch me kill you." He brought the hand not holding his wand up to his chin and rubbed it thoughtfully. "Pity. But he's not here, and I'm going to kill you anyway. You got away, back in September, and you shouldn't have. We -- _I_ -- had you cornered, and then the traitor pretended to torture you, only to save time..." 

Wendy pressed urgently against the stone wall behind her, then looked left and right. There was no way out, and she didn't think she could move -- he had his wand trained on her. 

"Oh, yes, we know all about that. The Dark Lord knows all about your rescue, and he punished me for it. All your fault." His face twisted briefly, then cleared, with effort. "All your fault." He said this last lightly, as though he were offering to take her coat at the door. 

Lucius raised his wand, and Wendy flung herself to the left, hearing a whooshing sound and those horrible, harsh words: _"Avada Kedavra!"_

The spell missed her -- how, she didn't know -- but she was showered with fragments from Colin's cello, which had been lying on its side not two feet away. 

Wendy gave herself a precious second to be outraged at the blatant destruction of a priceless, rare Stradivarius cello, then spotted something gleaming on the floor next to her hand. It was Colin's endpin. She snatched it up and raised herself to her feet. 

Lucius was already bringing his wand up for a second attempt. 

She looked at the endpin in her hand. It was a foot and a half of shiny metal, about a quarter inch in diameter, with a tip sharp enough to gouge concrete. She looked at Lucius' wand moving as if in slow motion, and did the only thing she could think of. 

Wendy charged. The endpin, clutched in both hands, first knocked the wand out of Lucius' hand, then grazed the fabric of his sleeve. She tried to fend him off, but he was stronger and clamped both hands around her neck. 

Air stopped coming into Wendy's lungs. She felt the cold, hard metal in her sweaty hands, saw Lucius' contorted, palce face above her, hissing, spitting hatred. They fell to the ground, rolled once -- Wendy still clutching her weapon -- and landed with Lucius on top, his ribcage and knees pinning her. 

Her vision began to go dark for lack of breath, and with her right hand she pushed the sharp end of the endpin up towards him. 

It snagged on the heavy fabric of his cloak and was pushed almost out of her hand, but the jab startled him enough to allow Wendy a half-second to slap his hands away from her throat and let air back into her lungs. She gulped in the air, almost lightheaded with relief. 

Lucius sat up momentarily to check for damage, a moment which meant Wendy was able to start struggling, rolling and twisting, her knees clamped in a lover's parody around his waist. She managed to roll on top of him, trying to pin his hands with her arms but keep hold of her precious endpin. Teeth -- now there was a weapon! She bit him. He tasted much saltier than Severus, and entirely wrong. 

"Bitch!" he spat, slapping her across the face, dislodging her teeth from his neck. He gained control of the rolling tumble, but Wendy was ready as she landed on her back, all her attention on the endpin in her right hand. 

Before Lucius' weight settled on top of her, pinning her immovably to the floor, Wendy shifted her hips to the left, sliding her buttocks so that she could feel the fabric of her pants snag on the stage floorboards; she moved her left hand so that both hands were gripping the endpin. She braced it against the floor, the sharp end pointing to the ceiling. 

Lucius tumbled over and landed squarely on top of it instead of her. 

There was a sharp intake of breath, then Lucius rolled off of the endpin, face twisted with pain. Wendy stared, transfixed, as he reached one arm up and pulled the endpin out of his chest. 

Wendy gagged at the blood that came spilling out of the wound. She retched, swallowed, and then closed her eyes and turned away. 

"You filthy Muggle," he said in a hoarse voice. "Unworthy..." 

Wendy found her eyes open again: he was crawling towards her, wiedling the endpin as she had done, moments earlier. 

"I'm going to kill you," Lucius gurgled. 

He was two feet from her, the endpin in one outstretched hand. There was no way he could kill her, with so much blood leaking out of him. But he was still trying. He lurched to his knees and, in a graceless movement, fell towards her. The endpin came flying out of his hand at her. 

Wendy jerked backwards; she batted at the endping and somehow managed to catch it. She stared, horrified. 

"Filthy..." he breathed. 

And then he fell sideways and was still. 

There were four very fast heartbeats during which Wendy could hear nothing but her own breathing. Then -- 

_OhmygodIvekilled_

She scrambled up, away from the body, and ran pell-mell into the fray. Curses, jinxes, and hexes shot past, but they all seemed to sizzle around her, never touching, the beams appearing to bend around her. She reached the entrance hall and set off up the marble staircase, the corridors flashing past her, mile after mile of torchlit stone, and stopped only when she saw a hooded figure emerge from behind a statue halfway along what she thought was the third floor. 

Half-crazed, Wendy charged at the figure, waving the endpin wildly. 

The hooded figure let out a frightened yell that ended in a gargle, and then two strong hands curled around Wendy's arms, knocked the endpin to the floor, and she found herself being hugged tightly. 

"Thank Merlin," said Severus. 

He had Wendy back in his arms. He held her close, ignoring the stab from his ribs. "Thank Merlin," he said, over and over again. 

She was crying as he had never seen before, not even when she'd first heard of Luke's death. 

"Shhh," he said, patting her head, trying to be comforting. "It's all right. It's all right." 

"I -- oh, God -- he's -- I didn't have any choice -- Malfoy -- kill me -- I didn't know what -- oh, God --" she choked. She pulled herself free from him, swallowed, and breathed hard several times. "I k-k-killed Lucius," she said, with extreme difficulty. 

"What?" Had he really just heard that? 

"I k-killed him." 

"You... killed? Lucius Malfoy?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Are you sure?" He didn't mean to sound so patronizing, but it was bloody difficult for a Muggle to kill a wizard. And it did snap Wendy out of her shock. 

"Yes, I'm sure!" she snapped, color flushing her cheeks. She bent and picked up the strange metal thing she'd wielded at him moments earlier. It was covered with blood. "Look!" she demanded, holding it out to him. 

Severus took it gingerly, avoiding the blood."You killed him with this?" 

"Yes!" 

"You're sure he's dead?" 

"Well, if bleeding like a stuck pig and collapsing to the floor means you're dead, then yes, I'm sure." Wendy waved a hand in front of his face. It was crimson, completely covered with blood. 

Severus blanched, grabbed her by the elbow, and dragged her down the hall to the nearby washroom. "Wash it off!" he ordered, pushing her to the sink. "Quickly! Before it stains!" 

"Blood doesn't stain," she retorted, but opened the taps nonetheless. "Doctors wash it off all the time." She squeezed some soap from the dispenser onto her hands. 

"This blood might," he said darkly. "Who knows what kind of spells Lucius left in it?" 

Wendy's hands paused in their scrubbing; the bubbles continued to froth up pinkly. "Spells?" 

"Spells," he confirmed. "Anything from a simple Staining Jinx to slow-acting nerve toxins." 

Wendy scrubbed harder than ever, the water from her hands running pinkish-black. She added another dollop of soap. 

Severus placed the bloody metal rod on one of the vanity mirrors and muttered a Banishing Charm. He'd have to retrieve it from his sludge bin, but it ought to be safe enough for the time being. He looked at Wendy, face intent, tear streaks down her cheeks again, her hair, which earlier had pulled away from her face so elegantly, now coming out of its knot. He reached over and tucked a strand behind her ears. 

Her hands paused, but only for a second, and then she muttered, "Thanks," turned off the taps, and dried her hands on the hanging towels. She turned them up to him for inspection. "They okay?" 

Severus took them by the wrists and examined them. He couldn't see any stains, but only Madame Pomfrey would really be able to tell if any damage had been done. 

He hadn't ever looked at a woman's palm so clearly before: her hands were small. Not delicate, just small. Her fingers were bare, with hundreds of tiny lines running from tip to palm, and very short nails -- for cello playing, he realized absently. Before he could stop himself, his thumbs traced the bump of muscle and sinew at the base of her thumbs. Wendy breathed in sharply, but made no other movement. 

Then he moved his thumbs to rub her palms. _She must think this is part of the inspection,_ he realized with something akin to glee, however inappropriate it might have been. He turned her hands back over so that the palms were vertical, and ran one finger down each of her ten in turn, noticing the calluses on the fingertips of her left hand and the almost bony bump on the left thumb. Then he pressed his palms to hers, entwined their fingers, and squeezed her hands. 

"They look fine to me," he said, and had to clear his throat and say it again, because it had come out rather hoarsely the first time -- Wendy was looking into his eyes. 

How could she do that? How could she make eye contact with him, open up her soul so freely? How could she trust him? 

"I lov --" he began, but was stopped as Wendy pulled one of her hands free and clapped it over his mouth. It smelled of soap. 

"Don't. Please. Not now," she said. She wasn't begging, but there was a note of desperation and panic to her tone. 

And, almost as though it was a deliberate emphasis of the world outside, Severus felt a freezing cold that could only mean one thing -- dementors. Lots of them. 


	18. Good Vibrations

**Chapter 18: Good Vibrations**

Harry kept getting distracted by side skirmishes as he tried to make for the doors. First he had to wrest Draco Malfoy off several second years, taking great pleasure in slamming his right fist into Malfoy's nose and then, when Malfoy had his hands over his nose in shock, planting it firmly in his right eye. Sometimes you didn't need a wand, really. 

Then Harry had to direct Crabbe towards Dumbledore's Army, because Crabbe had had to Stun his own father and didn't know where his mother and aunt were, and was worried about them, in a very slow and irritatingly earnest way. A redeemed Slytherin. Who'd have thought. 

Harry pointed him in the right direction and continued towards the doors, his head pounding. 

Then there was a succession of completely random Muggles, witches, and wizards who kept telling him to fix it, to solve it, to get rid of the Death Eaters. He was just one person, for Merlin's sake -- didn't any of the qualified wizards know any jinxes of their own? 

"Stay together!" he ordered person after person, usually accompanied by an annoyed _"Stupefy!"_ at a disheveled Death Eater. 

They all approached him with desperate eyes, shocked voices, awed and gaping mouths, as though his status as The Boy Who Lived should have been enough to prevent this entire massacre -- for it was a massacre. 

Harry encountered Tonks at one moment, expertly dodging curses and doing as much damage to the Death Eaters and their apprentices as possible. She gave him a grim nod and an even grimmer smile as they continued in opposite directions. 

He lost count of the small bundles of black robes -- students who'd fallen. Anger built up in him, a red rage that made him want to scream and tear things apart. Students dying all over the place, just because he'd let a rat free two years ago. 

Breathing became more difficult as he approached the rubble that had been the doors; he could see Ron and Hermione scrambling over them, too, ducking and dodging a handful of hexes that were thrown in their direction. Harry's scar began burning more fiercely than ever, though the rest of him was chilled through. 

Standing in the doors were Lord Voldemort and the two Lestranges. Behind them slithered a huge snake, and behind the snake hovered a horde of dementors. 

This wasn't fair. 

Never had Ron faced Death like this, never been so close to it. He could feel it breathing down his neck, a palpable pressure that made his eyes go wide and his breathing shallow. Not even last June at the Ministry had he been so afraid for his life, so afraid of screwing up. 

Hermione beside him was letting out a constant stream of words, and though they hit his brain they seemed all jumbled up: 

"In a circle -- over here -- Ron, we need to -- Harry -- protect them -- buffalo." 

The word _buffalo_ jolted him momentarily. "Huh?" 

"Buffalo," Hermione repeated, turning to face him, obviously exasperated. "When a herd is attacked, the strong circle around the outside to protect the weak. We need to get the wizards to form a circle around the Muggles." 

"How in blazes do we do that?" 

Hermione's confident voice trembled just the slightest. "No idea." 

A black robed figure came charging out of the crowd at them, his wand held high. He saw Hermione and made a beeline for her. Ron vaguely recognized a Slytherin seventh-year. 

_"Avada --"_ the Slytherin began. 

_"Expelliarmus!"_ Ron shouted, before Hermione had even begun to move her wand. 

The boy's wand went flying out of his hand over his head; he followed it with his eyes, mouth open in shock. 

_"Stupefy!"_ said Hermione while the boy was gazing idiotically upward. 

He thunked to the ground. 

"I hope he gets trampled," Ron said savagely. 

"Ron!" 

"Well, I do," he said defensively. "He tried to kill you!" He felt a smug surge of satisfaction as well that he'd been able to protect Hermione -- that was what a boyfriend did, wasn't it? 

Hermione shook her head but didn't reply. Her mouth was open slightly and her eyes wide, blinking very fast and irregularly. Ron reached for her hand and squeezed it. Hermione sent him a grateful, sad look. 

She thought she was going to die, he could see it in her face. And she wasn't afraid of it, just sad and regretful. Ron wondered how he felt about it, but couldn't find the courage to ask himself. 

All around them, people were pushing past each other, terrified, remarkably quiet. Ron would have thought they'd be screaming, but they weren't. Instead there was a wide-eyed disbelief painted on their faces and a steely "better you than me" look in their eyes as they jostled each other in an attempt to stay out of the line of fire. 

The Death Eaters, from what Ron could see, were methodically killing each person they encountered. It made him sick. The witches and wizards had their wands out, yes, but they were just holding them limply, not even using them to try to defend themselves; as people ran and fled, a new person would be suddenly put in the line of fire. The Muggles never had a chance, either. 

"Oy!" Ron finally shouted to the person nearest him. It was a plump wizard clutching his wand as though he expected it to spell itself. 

"What?" 

"You need to be ready for it -- when you're next in line, you've got to try to Stun them. Don't you even know the Stunning spell?" 

"Er.. yes... I mean, we learned it --" 

"Then defend yourself, you blithering idiot!" 

He felt, rather than saw, Hermione's reproachful stare. Defensively, he went on, "Well, we can't defend all of you at the same time! When a Death Eater comes toward you, don't just go all limp!" 

The man looked shocked, but he nodded in a frightened sort of way and held his wand a little less timidly. 

"That's a good idea," said Hermione suddenly. She turned and saw a similarly timid witch trying to hide behind a fat Muggle man. "Hey!" she bellowed, in a surprisingly loud voice. "Hey, you! Defend yourself!" 

The witch looked up, completely terrified. 

"You've got a wand, use it!" Hermione roared, waving hers in the air. 

Ron let out a wild whoop. 

He and Hermione began pushing through the crowds together, shouting and bellowing, "Defend yourself! Use your wand! Don't just stand there, idiot!" 

Death still lurked, but it had retreated somewhat. 

Ginny scrambled into the crowd of students, angry as hell. Dumbledore should not have let Rigel be killed... it was just completely unfair. He was such a nice kid, too. 

She needed to find Luna, Neville, Colin, Parvati, and all the rest of Dumbledore's Army. 

"Luna!" she shouted into the mass of black robes that surged past her, hurrying on to huddle in the inner chamber. They'd be safe there, yes, but trapped. There were no doors out of that room. 

As she jostled into the crowd, her elbows and ribs quickly became sore from being hit by fellow students, and her feet kept being stepped on. 

"Luna? Neville! Parvati?" 

Faces streaked by, all pale, all scared. Some of the Muggleborns looked terrified, and more than a few of them were yelling for their parents, clearly not sure whether they should go with the flow of bodies or struggle and find their parents. 

Someone thunked hard into her and she stumbled. The mass of people around her was such that she knew if she fell, she'd be completely squashed. She felt her knees give way, felt the floor coming up to meet her. She could already envision herself as a bloody mangled heap on the floor, and then it would be a closed casket funeral, and who would say the eulogy?-- 

She grabbed the first thing that she came into contact with. 

"OW! Ginny?" 

It was Neville, and he sounded extremely pained. He reached out with two very strong arms and hauled her up. 

"Neville!" she blurted, feeling the floor straighten itself out into the right place again. "Thank you -- I'm so sorry..." 

Then she saw that he was cringing and trying to bend double. "I am so sorry," she said again, coming to a horrid realization. "Did I grab--" 

"Yes," he said in a strangled voice. "I'll be fine, don't worry," he added, obviously lying. 

Ginny was buffetted by a passing student, and Neville instinctively reached out a hand to steady her. "Look," she said, "I can cast a healing spell if you like--" Her face felt hot. 

Neville went pink, too, but nodded. "Please." 

Extremely embarrassed, Ginny pointed her wand between his legs and mumbled a Numbing Charm. 

"Thanks," Neville breathed, straightening up. 

Ginny forced her mind away from the fact that Neville had... You-Know-Whats... and back to the matter at hand. "We need to find the D.A.," she said in what she prayed was a business-like tone. "Harry's gone to do whatever it is he does, and Ron and Hermione are in the crowd -- where's Luna?" 

"I'm here," said Luna placidly. "I hope I don't have to kill anyone," she added calmly. 

Ginny didn't have time for Luna right now. "Fine," she snapped. "Where are the rest? Parvati, Lavender, Colin--" 

"Shout for them," suggested Neville. 

This was so sensible that Ginny was startled. Then she opened her mouth, filled her lungs, and practically sang, "Dumbledore's Army! To me!" 

The flow of students rushing past her became suddenly jumbled as two dozen of them started struggling the other way, out of the chamber and towards Ginny, Luna, and Neville. 

It took about twenty seconds for everyone to sort themselves out, and during that time, Ginny's ears were assaulted by a horrible barrage of _"Avada Kedavra!"_s and shocked yelling, combined with an extremely heartening roar of Hermione's: _"You've got a wand, use it!"_

When everyone was there, Ginny yelled, "This is what we've trained for! We need to help the Muggles! Use Stupefy, use Expelliarmus! Use whatever you know!" 

Then she raised her voice further and bellowed at the crowd of students huddling in the antechamber, "You lot! If you want to help your parents and keep them from getting killed, get on out there and start fighting!" 

There was a hesitant cheer from somewhere in the middle of the group -- Ginny rather thought it was one of the Creevey boys -- and then suddenly everyone was cheering, yelling, shouting. She felt a surge of hope. If they were going to die, by Merlin they were going to die fighting. 

The students of Hogwarts surged out to meet their attackers. 

It happened just as Ron and Hermione reached the doors. As they dodged the odd hex, scrambling up and over the wooden wreckage towards Harry, who was running at an angle to them, Hermione heard Ron's fast breathing suddenly halt, and then heard a rushing in her own ears. It was suddenly very cold. 

"Oh, no," said Ron. He pointed. 

Hermione shook her head slightly. No. No, this could not be happening. That was simply not real; she would wake up any moment now and realize that it was just a bad dream she was having before the concert. It was just nerves. 

Hermione experienced one of those odd moments where you suddenly fall into your own body, wake up, and take a long slow look around. _This is my life_, she suddenly thought. _Oh, Merlin, this is really happening. We are trapped in the Great Hall of a magic school, attacked by Nazi-esque Death Eaters, and there are hundreds of dementors waiting to swoop in and suck out our souls._ She clutched Ron's hand. 

"Something happy," she whispered. "Oh, Merlin, something happy -- I can't think --" 

"Yes, you can," Ron said vehemently. 

No, she couldn't. 

Where was Dumbledore? He should be the one facing this, not three students, not Harry, not yet. It wasn't June, it wasn't seventh year, Harry wasn't ready! 

Hermione cast a frantic look back towards the Great Hall, fully aware of how sweaty her hand was, clasped in Ron's. After a few seconds searching, she found him: Dumbledore was striding through the crowd, deflecting hexes on his way towards Harry. 

_Please, hurry,_ Hermione thought desperately. _We can't face this alone._

Ginny felt the cold coming and knew what it meant. She could even hear Tom Riddle's voice in her head, and had to shake it to clear it. But it was like an old wireless set heard through a wall, relentless and blurry. 

_"Stupefy!"_ she cried, aiming at a Death Eater, who ducked. _"Stupefy! Stupefy! Protego!"_

_You foolish little girl,_ said Tom's voice. _You know this is the only way._

_No, it's not_, Ginny told herself. She was alive, she deserved to be alive, and she was doing a damn fine job of helping others live. 

_"Stupefy!"_ One down. 

Luke could now see dementors. 

They were tall, much taller than a normal person, and made of rotten, decomposing flesh barely covering over their sickly skeletons. Instead of a head with a normal face, they had a skull with an open, gaping mouth, black as night. As they accumulated in the entrance hall, Luke felt the temperature drop, which was odd, because he hadn't noticed it since his death. And it wasn't just a temperature drop, it was like they were trying to suck in more than just warmth and air. 

And there were over a hundred of them hovering in ranks behind the tall man with the red eyes and the two Death Eaters he recognized as Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange. He'd seen them during Tonks' time in Azkaban, watched her duel them to a standstill to retrieve his body and return them both to Hogwarts. 

Then he realized that the tall man with the red eyes had to be Lord Voldemort himself. 

And then he was further shocked when Lord Voldemort turned his face up to Luke and sniffed. It was a face that would have been more at home on a snake -- flat nose, thin lips, bony cheeks -- and Luke wouldn't have been surprised to see a forked tongue dart out to taste the air. 

"I know you're there," Lord Voldemort said to Luke. "I can't see you, but I know you're there." 

Wendy and Severus were crouched just around a corner at the top of the marble staircase. To Wendy, the entrance hall was empty except for three people standing just outside the doors. According to Severus, though, there were a hundred dementors there. 

"What do they look like?" she asked Severus. It was so cold! She shivered. 

"They hover; they're dressed in black, but it's ragged cloth. You can't see anything underneath their hoods. And they're at least ten feet tall, thin." 

Wendy swallowed a dry lump in her throat. "Is that why I feel --" she began, but Severus shushed her. 

The figure in front was speaking. "... you're there," it said. "I can't see you, but I know you're there... You should be dead, Muggle!" 

Hope suddenly surged. Luke had to be alive, or a ghost, or something -- Voldemort was talking to him, he wasn't completely gone. She would see him again, she knew it. 

Hermione instantly understood whom Lord Voldemort was addressing, though she couldn't believe it. "Luke," she breathed to Ron. 

"Huh?" 

Hermione ignored him and watched Harry, who was inching forward; there was a large chunk of door between him and Lord Voldemort, and he was using that as a shield, keeping low and out of sight. 

Suddenly, Hermione knew what she had to do. 

"I need to find Ginny," she whispered to Ron, then scuttled away along the walls before he could stop her or ask why. 

The hall had gone very, very still. No doubt everyone was feeling the presence of the dementors. The Death Eaters had stopped their attacks and were watching their master as though awaiting further orders. The wizards and witches watched the Death Eaters and dementors; the Muggles watched the wizards and witches. The students watched their parents, those still alive clinging to each other. 

Hermione didn't want to count, but her brain did it for her -- there were about seventy small bundles of black robes and at least twice that many fallen Muggles; scattered here and there were clumps of colored robes, of wizards and witches, and Hermione's inner counting mechanism told her that there were sixty-two clumps, each of which probably had five people in them. She blinked her eyes to clear the blurriness and hugged the wall as she tried to make her way covertly to Ginny, who was about thirty feet from her, thankfully standing by the wall as well. 

_Look at me, Ginny,_ she thought desperately. _See me, Ginny. I'm trying to reach you, I need your help on this..._

Voldemort was speaking again, this time calling for Harry. "Harry Potter!" he shouted. "The one destined to destroy me -- come out and fight!" 

Hermione blinked. That was needlessly melodramatic. She couldn't help but let out a snort, then tamped down on it. The snort, though, had attracted Ginny's attention. At last. Ginny began scooting cautiously along the wall towards her. 

"What?" she mouthed at Hermione. 

Hermione couldn't think of a clear way of expressing it with lip-readable commands, so she gestured to Ginny to come closer, and inched further along herself. Finally, they were just inches apart. 

Dumbledore had strode up again to defend Harry, and he and Voldemort were exchanging witty repartee -- or something like that. It didn't matter, any of it. 

"Resonance," Hermione said as quietly as she could. 

Ginny blinked. "What?" 

"My audition -- I told you, right? Resonance, matching pitches, right?" 

Ginny's eyes widened. 

"Golden bubble and so on," Hermione said urgently. 

"Yes, but how can we do it without attracting everyone's attention? I mean, the Death Eaters will hex us as soon as they notice us." 

"Oh. We'll just have to duck, then, won't we?" 

Ron's attention was not drawn by Dumbledore's eloquent speech to Voldemort about "Now is not the time, Tom; wait until he is older." It was drawn, rather, by the ten foot long snake that circled around underneath the dementors. 

It had to be the same one that had attacked Dad -- really, how many snakes were there that were that big and under You-Know-Who's command? 

Something niggled at the edge of his brain, something obvious that he knew he was missing. 

Memories flitted past, memories of Harry's confession that he had been the snake; memories of Quidditch, memories of his first days at Hogwarts, meeting Harry and discovering the mystery of the Stone. So innocent, they had been: now in the face of these dementors, he felt as though their first year had been a walk in the park. 

Ron remembered Harry saying it was as if Dumbledore thought Harry ought to have a chance to face You-Know-Who, and indeed, so many things had come together perfectly that night, when they'd first gone down the trapdoor: Hermione's studies, Ron's chess skills, even that silly flute Hagrid had given Harry for Christm-- 

Oh. 

Ron fumbled with the flap of the satchel that was still, somehow, around his neck. If this worked, it would make all that practicing worthwhile. 

Luke saw several things happen all at once: 

Lord Voldemort sent a Killing Curse at Dumbledore; 

Harry yelled and sent his own jinx at Voldemort; 

the dementors surged past Harry and Voldemort in a mass of skeleton and black; 

the crowd began to panic and trample backwards, only to find itself trapped between the dementors, Death Eaters, and the walls of the Great Hall; 

Ginny let out a pure, exquisite tone that dripped like a jewel through the air; 

Ron began to play a tune on his recorder; 

and the blue shimmery gunk from the concert began to swirl and form shapes in the air. 

As Ron, for some unknown reason, began to play a tune that Hermione vaguely recognized, Ginny opened her mouth and began to sing a single note that somehow blended with Ron's tune, even though her note never wavered. Hermione tried to match it. 

Immediately a Death Eater sent a curse their way. Not breaking the note, Hermione ducked. The curse impacted against the wall over her head, and bits of stone exploded outwards. A few pebbles hit her on the head. She yelped in pain. 

Ginny's voice stopped. _"Expelliarmus!"_ she cried, and the Death Eater who'd tried to curse them found his wand flying high out of his reach. He ran after it, and Ginny took another breath and sang again. 

Hermione sang what she thought was a matching pitch. 

Ginny winced. Way off. 

Hermione tried again. Ginny raised her eyebrows in surprise. Apparently not. 

Again. Ginny shook her head vehemently. Further off. 

Again -- a little closer! Ginny gave her a thumbs up. 

With the production of almost-matching notes, a blue shimmer appeared in the air around them, like a wall, shielding them from the outside, and from the curse that another Death Eater sent their way. 

Hermione let herself be startled for half a second while Ginny took another breath and let out another note. 

This time, Hermione could hear that she was really, really, extremely close, but Ginny shook her head. 

All the while, the blue shield was growing stronger and stronger, Ron's recorder tune was growing louder and louder, and the dementors' progress into the hall had slowed from a rush to a crawl. 

Hermione concentrated once more, thinking of the time in Luke's office when she'd first matched pitch... such ecstasy, such happiness. With that firmly in the front of her mind, she listened to the note, thought of her throat, and sang. 

It matched. 

When Ron put the recorder to his lips, he suddenly recalled that snakes didn't have ears. He hoped to Merlin and Circe that this would work, because if it didn't, he had probably just painted a big target on the front of his robes. 

Fortunately -- though it was quickly becoming unfortunately -- the snake appeared to be able to hear him, or sense him, or smell the sound on the air, because it lifted its great head and hissed, sending out a long tongue to flick the air. 

After a second or two, during which Ron's phrases became very short because his lungs were occupied in breathing fast, the snake's eyes turned to Ron. 

He nearly dropped the recorder. 

The big eyes were out of focus, making the monster look sleepy. Its head moved back and forth ever so slightly, weaving gently and sinuously. It listed a little to the left. 

Ron felt a hysterical giggle bubble up from his stomach and quashed it before it could mess with his breathing. 

The snake's tongue flicked the air once, twice more, as though it were trying to lick the music out of the air. All the time, its eyes stared towards Ron, who didn't dare blink. 

His mind began to spin with inappropriate images: perhaps he ought to sit cross-legged, put a turban on, and charge tourists three Sickles to watch the miracle of the snake-charmer. 

Something was happening to the air -- he could hear Ginny and Hermione's voices singing in unison on the tonic note of his tune, and turned to find them. He spotted them about twenty feet away, standing by a wall, surrounded by a glowing blue shield that evidently protected them from curses, because despite the Death Eaters trying to jinx them, they were unharmed. 

The snake suddenly thudded sideways, unconscious. Ron's shoulders sagged with relief, but he didn't stop playing. If this thing was anything like Fluffy, he needed to keep playing. 

As soon as Luke saw the Killing Curse impact with Albus' body, he was so shocked and angry that he didn't even think. He swooped down to Voldemort and flew straight at him. 

To his immense surprise, he didn't pass through. 

His vision wobbled a bit, spun sideways, and then he was looking on the scene from a spot about six feet up. 

Harry, who had not hit Voldemort with his first jinx, tried a second time. _"Stupefy!"_ he yelled. 

Luke's view of the scene altered, coming from lower down, and then he understood -- he was seeing out of Voldemort's head, and Voldemort had just ducked. 

_Muggle!_ came a voice. _What are you doing?_

_I don't know,_ Luke said before he could stop himself. _You're a fucking bastard for killing Albus. I wish I had hands so I could throttle you._

_But you have no hands. You are dead._ And as Voldemort thought these words, he also said, _"Crucio!"_, shooting a beam of red light towards Harry, who dodged out of the way. 

_I'm not dead,_ Luke protested. _I'm not a ghost -- none of the Hogwarts ones can see me._

Harry's next curse came very close to hitting Voldemort. Luke felt a surge of triumph. 

_Think you can distract me?_ said Voldemort. 

_That's what I'm doing, aren't I?_ Luke retorted, rather smugly. 

_What happens to me does not matter here. They will not kill me -- they cannot kill me. And my dementors will feast._

_You're a sick arrogant idiot._

_I am the most powerful wizard of all time_, Voldemort said. _You will leave me now!_

As Voldemort cried, _"Avada Kedavra!"_ Luke found himself being pulled out of the wizard's body and shot along the beam of green light, straight towards Harry, who did not duck in time. 

Harry thought he was dead when he felt the bolt of green light impact his chest. But it didn't happen. He saw green for a moment, stumbled in shock, then blinked and found Voldemort standing in front of him, staring down at his hands, which were empty. 

A few splinters of wood lay in a pile at Voldemort's feet. 

Voldemort looked up and met Harry's eyes. 

"I will kill you some day, make no mistake, Harry Potter." 

Then with a swish of his cloak, he and the snake were gone. 

_I thought you couldn't disapparate from Hogwarts,_ thought Harry absently, staring at the spot where Voldemort had been. 

Then his spirits sagged and his blood went cold. There were a hundred dementors still inside the Great Hall. 

He summoned up thoughts of getting out of this alive, of meeting up with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny -- especially Ginny -- and cried, _"Expecto Patronum!"_

As Voldemort's spell hit Harry, Luke became slightly dizzy and once again felt himself be absorbed into a body. Inside, he found himself surrounded by a bright glow, a warm, ever-loving and infinitely kind light that made Luke feel as though nothing could ever go wrong again. Optimism, hope, confidence -- it was all there, surrounding him in an indescribable glow. 

From a faraway distance, he heard Harry cry, _"Expecto Patronum!"_

The glow around him contracted, squeezed itself into his consciousness, and squirted him out through Harry's wand. 

He burst out into open air again, free, exuberant, infinitely powerful. His vision was clearer than it had ever been -- the witches and wizards were vibrantly colored, the Muggles painted in a slightly more muted palette. Hermione and Ginny, whose voices had become a pedal note to Ron's remarkably appropriate tune, both glowed blue. Rigel Lestrange, lying by the makeshift stage of the concert, was also blue, but a deeper, more vibrant blue, and connected with him were hundreds of small blue fibers. Looking around, Luke saw that these fibers connected with most of the fallen bodies, whose auras -- many different colors -- pulsated slightly, like heartbeats. 

And the dementors were not just skeletons, but skeletons of a black so dark it seemed to be a hole in the world, each surrounding a pulsating red center that Luke now knew served as the equivalent of a heart, circulating the magical anti-energy that the dementors used to suck warmth and life out of the air. 

He heard Harry gasp below him and heard a cry of shock from Wendy, who he suddenly spotted lurking at the top of the marble staircase, held closely by Snape, whose mouth was open in amazement. Luke looked down at his body -- he had a body, a golden body that looked exactly like his own, down to the tiny hole in the left thigh of his pants, the same pants he'd worn to the Halloween Ball, so long ago. 

Luke flew down to where Ron was still playing the recorder, the boy's fingers and mouth on automatic, his eyes open in shock. 

"Keep going," he said, and was thrilled to hear his own voice, only it was a little richer, a little fuller, than ever before. He raised his voice and spoke to the again-silent crowd. "Do you all know this song?" 

He heard a laugh from Wendy, who had come running down the marble staircase. 

Ron reached the end of the tune and started again, and Wendy sang along: 

_Do you hear the people sing,  
Singing the song of angry men,  
It is the music of a people  
who will not be slaves again!_

And a few Muggles in the audience joined in: 

_When the beating of our hearts  
Echoes the beating of the drum,  
There is a life about to start  
When tomorrow comes!_

The dementors' forward progress went from slow to standstill. One witch, face to face with a dementor, her wand having fallen to her side, picked up the lyrics and began singing with immense bravery: 

_It is the music of a people  
Who will not be slaves again!_

The dementor backed away, shrinking slightly into itself, its hood turning this way and that. All around the hall, the dementors were backing off from their victims, the ones surrounding Luke in the air grouping together as if for protection. 

The blue shimmers from the concert had clumped into thick snowflake-like structures six to ten inches across each; Luke reached out and wafted one towards a dementor. When the flake landed, the dementor let out a horrific shriek and began to claw at the blue flake, its body smoking at the point of contact. 

The crowd sang, 

_When the beating of our hearts  
Echoes the beating of the drum,  
There is a life about to start  
When tomorrow comes!_

Luke flew around the hall, directing more and more flakes towards the dementors, not sure if anyone below could see them. More and more flakes landed on the dementors; they shrieked and clawed, and finally fled out through the entrance hall, their cries reverberating off the stones. 

_Do you hear the people sing,  
Singing the song of angry men,  
It is the music of a people  
who will not be slaves again!_

The Death Eaters on the floor found themselves surrounded by a singing crowd. One of them, whom Luke recognized as Bellatrix Lestrange, tried to send a jinx towards a Muggle man, but the jinx bounced back and hit the Death Eater, who crumpled to the floor. 

_"Expelliarmus!"_ said a wizard next to the Muggle, and all the Death Eaters' wands flew into the air to be caught by the surrounding crowd. 

_When the beating of our hearts  
Echoes the beating of the drum,  
_

Hermione stepped forward, smiling with immense relief and satisfaction. _"Incarcerus!"_ Ropes flew out of the end of her wand and tied themselves around the arms and wrists of each of the dozen Death Eaters huddled in the middle of the hall. 

_There is a life about to start  
When tomorrow comes!_

The crowd began to cheer wildly, people crying and laughing at the triumph of victory. All Wendy could do was stare, though, as the golden figure of Luke descended gently through the air to land in front of her. 

She rushed towards him, but stopped just as she reached him. She put out a hand to his arm and hesitantly touched him. He felt real, he felt solid and warm. 

Wendy burst into tears and flung herself into his arms. "Oh, my God," she sobbed. "Oh, my God, I can't believe it." 

Luke's hands found her hair and stroked it gently. 

"How long do you have?" Wendy asked. Everything was blurred through the tears. 

"I don't know," said Luke. "A few hours, perhaps. It's hard to stay here. It's like I keep getting distracted from reality." 

He felt so real that if his skin and clothes hadn't been glowing golden, he might have been a normal person, not some magical incarnation. She couldn't believe it. 

"What happened?" she asked, wiping her eyes. 

Severus had hurried down the marble staircase after Wendy, and now he watched, feeling distinctly awkward, as she embraced the returned Luke. 

"Oh, my God," she kept saying. 

Severus left her to it and hurried past the rejoicing crowd to Rigel Lestrange's body, which lay on the floor a little ways from the stage. 

He knelt down beside the crumpled form and shook his head slightly. Too many dead, simply too many. And it was only just beginning. 

To his great surprise though, he saw that Rigel was still breathing. Severus pressed his hand to the boy's forehead: it was hot to the touch, fevered. 

"He's not dead," he said aloud. 

The nearest witch, who turned out to be Molly Weasley, turned from her rejoicings. "What do you mean, he's not dead?" 

"He's not dead," Severus repeated. He looked into her startled eyes. "He's still alive." 

Mrs. Weasley brought two plump hands to her mouth. "Merlin," she breathed. Then she was distracted as Ron and Ginny Weasley came running up to her and threw themselves at her, clearly relieved to find her still alive. 

Severus stood up and looked around. Fudge ought to be here somewhere; as Minister, he really should be the one taking charge. He'd probably hidden in the middle of the crowd at the first sign of danger, Severus thought scathingly. Minerva would do -- and there she was, crying unrestrainedly while giving out orders to those around her. 

He hurried through the crowd to her. 

"Rigel's alive," he said without any preliminaries. 

"And then, Stebbins, you'll need to bring -- What did you say, Severus?" Minerva asked. 

"Rigel's alive," he repeated. "He's feverish." 

Her eyes widened. "Check the others," she said at once. "And check Albus..." her voice broke. 

But most of the little black bundles scattered around the hall, Rigel excepted, were already sitting up one by one and rubbing their necks, heads, or shoulders, depending on how they had fallen and whether they'd been stepped on in the crush of people earlier. Adults, too, were apparently coming back from the dead all around the hall. Cries of relief and joy and surprise came from all quarters, equivalent cries of dismay from those whose loved ones weren't reviving, who had been trampled during the fight. It was still a miracle -- so many had been thought lost, and now they weren't. 

Someone would have to take Rigel up to the hospital wing, Poppy would need to see to the fever, but first Severus had to know... 

He went out past the rubble of the doors to find Albus' body, which had fallen just outside the Great Hall. Potter and Granger were already there. Potter was on his knees next to the old man's form, head hanging. Granger knelt awkwardly behind him, her hand on his shoulder. Severus swept around them to Albus' other side. 

His eyes were open but blank, and on his mouth was a faint smile. 

He was clearly dead. 


	19. Stay

**Chapter 19: Stay**

The pull from above was stronger than ever, and Luke was no longer able to ignore it. 

_Come._

"Wendy," said Luke, putting his arms on her shoulders and holding her out in front of him, "I don't think I have long." 

Wendy sniffed and wiped her eyes. "What happened?" she said thickly. Her hands reached out to take both of his. 

"I was hit with a Killing Curse while in Azkaban with Tonks," Luke said. 

She nodded. "Yes, Tonks told us." 

"She fought her way free, and when she brought my body along, I had to follow. I'm not sure why." 

"Huh. And then?" 

"Then, when I first got here, I discovered I wasn't a ghost. Sir Nicholas couldn't see me or hear me -- I don't know why." 

Wendy pulled back and looked curiously at him. "But why didn't you die?" 

"I dunno. I'm a Muggle." 

"But you're a musician," she ventured. "Albus --" Her voice broke, "-- said that there was magic in the music... maybe there's magic in musicians, too?" 

"Maybe. I suppose it doesn't really matter, does it?" 

"I guess not," Wendy said, shrugging. "But -- just now? What happened? How did you send the dementors away?" 

Luke told her, speaking first of watching the concert and seeing the blue shimmery stuff; then he told her of his growing dread as the Death Eaters approached. And then he told her how he had watched, helplessly, as Rigel was hit with the Killing Curse. 

"And then it was as though all the blue stuff suddenly... activated," he said. "When Rigel was hit, these beams of blue light shot out of him and connected with the walls of the castle, and then the shimmery stuff became even brighter. 

"And when the Death Eaters started shooting curses at people, the blue stuff would form this barrier around them, and the curse...well, it didn't miss," he said slowly, trying to be accurate, "but it -- it dissipated. Only part of the curse actually hit them." 

"So that's why there aren't so many casualties," said Wendy thoughtfully, looking around the hall at the crowd. "I would have thought -- Wizards with wands up against Muggles..." A small shudder passed through her. 

"I guess," Luke replied. 

"And the dementors?" she prompted. "I only saw the effect they had -- Severus told me they were there." 

Luke ignored the intimacy in her tone and continued, "I could _see_ them, these big black holes in space. When I went into the entrance hall to find out more, Voldemort somehow knew I was there." 

"I know," Wendy said. "I heard him talking to you." 

"I saw you on the balcony next to Severus," said Luke. 

Between them floated the question, "And what were you doing with him?", but they both ignored it. 

Luke went on, "And then, when Voldemort killed Albus, I was so angry that I swooped through him, like a ghost -- that's one of the few things I could do, you know --" 

Wendy's mouth fell open. "That was you!" she exclaimed. "It _was_ you, in the practice rooms, in the corridors, when I thought I felt you -- when I was practicing, you were talking to me! You really were there, I wasn't imagining it!" 

Luke was filled with immense happiness to know that. "Yes," he said with a little laugh. "Yeah, that was me." 

"But go on!" 

"Right -- I swooped through Voldemort, and then -- and this has never happened before -- I was inside his head." 

Wendy opened her mouth in horror. "You were inside his head?" 

"Yeah. _Seriously_ twisted. I tried to distract him while he duelled with Harry, but it didn't really work so well. Then, he sort of...exorcised me as he tried to kill Harry, and I was sent out through his wand. Next thing I knew, I was inside Harry's head, but it wasn't quite his head, it was his heart." 

Wendy made a skeptical noise. 

"Yeah, I know," he said. "But that's what it was. There were all these emotions around me, all this _hope_." 

"Severus told me that the only way to fight off dementors is with a Patronus, this kind of shield made from good feelings." 

Luke nodded. "Yeah. And so when Harry made his Patronus, I was part of it." 

"And then you were in the air, visible, and you had us sing." 

He nodded again. "And you know the rest, mostly. Did you see any of the blue stuff?" 

Wendy shook her head. "No. All I could see was you waving your arms in the air, and the dementors backing off from people. It was incredible," she added. 

"I was wafting the blue stuff towards the dementors, that's what that was," he explained. 

There was a moment of silence during which the noises from the hall intruded on their little bubble. Luke felt the tug from above again -- it was getting stronger. _Not yet,_ he pleaded. _Please, just a little longer._

_Just a little._

"I don't have much more time," Luke said. "I need to take care of Rigel." 

Wendy looked at him in confusion. Luke himself was startled -- he hadn't known he was going to say that until the words came out of his mouth. 

"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand. Together they made their way towards Rigel, who was now laid out on a cloak on several chairs that had been scavenged from the mess. He was surrounded by Minerva and Filius, who were looking grave. 

As Luke threaded his way through the crowd, people began to notice him, turning and gaping, pointing, whispering to each other. Then, after he'd been walking for a few steps, someone began to clap. 

The applause spread through the crowd in a huge wave, and soon everyone was standing with their arms in the air, clapping, cheering, whistling. Luke glanced back at Wendy and saw that she was grinning hugely, but with tears on her face. He'd dreamed of such applause, but he'd always thought it would follow a kickass performance, not a battle. 

She leaned in and shouted in his ear, her voice breaking, "You're a hero." 

Luke gave her a smile and ploughed on through the crowd. 

When he reached Minerva and Filius, they were both grinning; Minerva's face was almost unrecognizable through the tears and wide smile, and Flitwick was dancing up and down. 

"Merlin," said Minerva, dabbing at her eyes with a very dirty handkerchief. Her hair had fallen out of its usual tight bun and was waving around her face like so many black worms. 

"Amazing," squeaked Filius, who had a black eye and a strip of robe wrapped around his right arm. "You'll have to tell me everything you noticed -- this is completely new magic, a new area of research. We'll have to tell Albus --" He broke off, his enthusiasm fizzling. 

Minerva blew her nose and brought her expression slightly under control. "Are you here for good, Luke?" 

"No, I'm not," he said, and Minerva nodded silently. Luke went on, "I need to see Rigel." 

With slightly puzzled expressions, the two professors moved out of the way so that Luke could stand right over Rigel. 

The boy's body, which he had not seen clearly from across the hall, still glowed faintly blue. The beams that had connected him to the castle were gone. Luke put a hand to Rigel's forehead, but pulled it away after a second. "Ouch!" He waved his hand to cool it. "It's hot!" 

Minerva looked at him sharply. "He has a fever. Poppy saw him a moment ago and thought it was just shock. Clearly, though --" 

Luke was shaking his head. "It's not just shock. Can't you see the glow?" 

"What glow?" asked Filius and Minerva at once. 

"He's glowing blue, can't you see it?" 

"No." 

The crowd behind them began whispering. 

"What does he mean?" "I don't see anything... " "Who is he, anyway?" "That music teacher that was killed, remember?" "I thought he was a Muggle!" "So did I!" 

"Luke," said Wendy, "look at your hands!" 

Luke looked. The tips of his fingers were no longer gold, but blue. 

"You can see the blue?" 

"Yes! What is it?" 

"I don't know." Luke turned his hands over, examining them. He pressed his fingertips together, and then had to pull them apart rather forcefully, because they stuck together like magnets. "I wonder..." 

He moved around so that he was standing over Rigel's head, then slowly moved his fingers towards the boy's forehead. About half an inch from the skin, he felt a jolt as his fingers clamped of their own volition against Rigel's forehead. 

The first thing he noticed was that Rigel's forehead felt like fire -- it hurt, but through the pain he felt a connection building somewhere around his navel. 

"Something's happening," he said, gritting his teeth against the pain. 

"What?" asked Filius. 

"I'm not sure, it --" His surroundings gave an almighty jerk. 

The last thing Luke heard was Wendy's exclamation of "Oh!" before everything went black. 

Rigel saw only darkness. Just darkness, inky, shadowy, murky darkness. He heard his heartbeat in the distance, but it gave him no sense of time. Was it slow or fast? How quickly was he thinking? He couldn't tell. 

But it didn't matter -- nor did it matter that he had no idea how he had gotten wherever he was. He was content to drift through the blackness, existing peacefully in solitude. 

Then there appeared in the distance -- or was it distance? -- a faint glow, a pulsating redness that was out of sync with the heartbeat. He watched placidly as the glow became stronger and brighter, turning from a point like a faulty wand to a flickering light that made gently curving shapes on the blackness. 

Then he heard a name. "Rigel?" 

Who was Rigel? 

"Rigel? It's Luke. Come back. Come on, you can do it." 

Rigel...Rigel... Oh, right, that was his name. People said that, and he thought of himself. _Rigel, clean up your room!_ That was his mother's voice -- his foster-mother's voice. His mother was not who had raised him. His mother was a trained killer kept locked in the Hogwarts dungeons, but he had set her free, simply by being himself... 

Rigel's identity -- his past, his present, his dreams, hopes and wishes -- everything that was _Rigel_ crashed into him all at once and he gasped. 

"That's it, Rigel. Come on. Let go of it." 

_Let go of what?_

"You're holding onto all the excess power from the fight --" 

Right. Lucius Malfoy had sent an Avada Kedavra at him, and Rigel had then fallen into the blackness. 

"-- and you need to let go of it. I'll take it." 

But why wasn't he dead? There was no countercurse for Avada Kedavra, everyone knew that. Harry Potter was the only person ever to have survived the curse, and even then no one knew how, and some people wondered if You-Know-Who had actually tried to use the Killing Curse. No one had been there except Harry and You-Know-Who, so how could they be so certain --? 

"Come on, Rigel, it's okay. Just let go of it." 

Rigel then became aware of an immense weight on his chest -- he had a chest, he had lungs. He had a body. Oh! A body, and a body that hurt. Legs, arms, head, neck. Eyes. He had eyes, and they were shut very tightly against the brightness outside. That was why everything was black and red, because when you closed your eyes against bright light, you saw red. 

Rigel shut his eyes tighter and tried to burrow back into the darkness. He didn't want to face the outside world, not if there had been a huge fight after he'd been killed. Dumbledore had told him that it was okay -- Dumbledore had looked at him and shaken his head, and he'd known that the right thing to do would be to follow his beliefs. Had people died? If they had, then it would be his fault, Rigel's fault... 

"He's reluctant." That was Luke's voice. Professor Luke, who had been kidnapped by Death Eaters with Professor Tonks, and then Tonks had brought Luke's body back and Professor Wendy had sent it off to a university for what the Muggles called "science." 

"Rigel, come on." The voice was now a little irritated, and Rigel, intent on finding the blackness again, suddenly found his way blocked by an image of Luke. 

"Hi," said Luke. "It's okay -- you can let go of it." 

Rigel looked down at his hands -- how had he got hands, inside his body? The outside had disappeared again, and he was just an image of himself -- and in his hands was a ball of blue fire, about ten inches across. It was warm, ever so warm. 

"I'll keep it, thanks," Rigel replied. 

"Don't you want to wake up?" 

"Not if people have died." 

"A few people have died, yes," Luke looked sad. "But not everyone who was hit with a curse. You, for one. You're not dead." 

"Aren't I?" 

"No -- that's what I'm doing here." 

"Oh. Aren't you dead? I thought you died." 

"I did -- but not really -- I'm not sure. But I'm here." Luke shrugged. Then he gestured to Rigel's hands. "Come on, let go of it." 

Rigel thought. On the one hand, he had this precious ball of fire, and peace and quiet. No guilt. On the other hand, the outside world was waiting for him. His parents -- his real parents, not the freaks who had donated sperm and egg -- were waiting for him. They were in the crowd, weren't they? 

"Are my parents alive?" Rigel asked, dreading the answer. 

"I don't know -- I never met them." 

"Are you a ghost, then?" 

"Not really, no. I was a spirit of sorts, and then during the fight I became Harry's Patronus." 

"There were dementors?" 

"Yes, there were dementors." 

"Did anyone get Kissed?" 

"No. No one got Kissed." 

"But people died." 

"Yes, from getting trampled and crushed. Not from magic." 

"Why not?" 

"You, I think." 

"Me? What did I do?" 

"You activated the magic. Come on, Rigel, come outside and everyone will explain it to you." 

Rigel weighed the two sides, thinking hard. He liked peace and quiet, and for all he knew, if he stayed here long enough, he'd just drift off into oblvion. But there were people out there, and -- 

"Okay." 

Luke smiled at him. "Then you need to let go of that." He pointed to the ball in Rigel's hands. 

Rigel tried to open his hands and let it fall out, but it stuck to his hands. 

"I think it's stuck," he said. "Here, you take it." And he held out his hands towards Luke. 

Luke, he now saw, was completely golden, except for the tips of his fingers, which were blue. 

"Go on, take it." He gestured with the ball, and as he pushed it away from himself, he felt it come free from his hands -- 

-- and then he could open his eyes, and he was looking up into Professor McGonagall's face. 

"Rigel!" she exclaimed thickly. "I can't tell you how happy we are to see you." 

--- 

Luke reeled as the ball of blue fire flew from Rigel's hands into his own. He was thrown free of the boy's forehead, and staggered backwards into the hall, clutching at nothing -- there was no ball, there was no fire. 

"Rigel!" exclaimed Minerva, looking down into Rigel's face. "I can't tell you how happy we are to see you." 

"Hello," said Rigel hoarsely. He tried to sit up, but Minerva pushed him back down. 

"You just wait until Poppy gets here, young man." Minerva turned to Luke. "What did you do?" 

"I think," said Luke, "that I just took all the excess magic from him." 

"What do you mean?" 

It was Filius who answered. "The music!" he exclaimed excitedly. "All the music in the hall created a magical field, didn't it, Luke? And because Albus wasn't inside the hall, he wasn't... well." 

Luke nodded, aware more than ever of the pull above. And there was a new sensation, as though the fire that he had absorbed was eating him away from the inside. It wasn't painful, but it gnawed at him and he wanted it to stop. 

"I'm guessing that when Rigel was hit with the Killing Curse that he absorbed it instead of having it act upon him, which caused a chain reaction in the magical field --" 

Luke let Filius blabber on, turning to Wendy, who was staring at him. 

"It's time, isn't it?" she asked. She wasn't crying. 

He nodded, and the two of them pulled to the side, slightly out of the spotlight. The crowd had turned their attention back to themselves; Luke could hear whispers, too, of, "Dumbledore's dead!" "He's dead?" "Yes! That's what she said--" "But he was the only one You-Know-Who ever feared... What'll happen now?" 

"It's getting impossible for me to hold on," Luke said. 

"I wish you could stay," Wendy said helplessly. 

"So do I," he said. 

"I wish --" she began, sounding extremely nervous, "I wish I had the courage to -- to come with you." 

"Don't say that!" he said sharply. "You've got to keep going, you've just _got_ to. You've got a whole life ahead of you -- you're only twenty-five. Please, please promise me that won't -- that you'll go on living." 

"I will, of course I will. I'm -- I'm too afraid, that's what hurts, I just -- I wish I could be with you," she pleaded desperately. 

"You can't." The blunt words fell out of his mouth and hung in the air between them. 

Wendy flinched and closed her eyes briefly. "I know." She opened her eyes and shook her head. "But that doesn't stop me wanting." 

Luke looked at her face, at her beautiful face that was covered in grime and filth, and at her pretty clothes all torn. She had several scratches on her face and a set of bruises beginning around her neck from where Lucius had tried to strangle her earlier. Luke reached out a hand and touched them. 

"You're bruising," he commented. 

She winced slightly at the touch, and brought her hand up to cover his. "I'll be fine." 

They stared at each other, Luke's hand resting against her jawline, the skin smooth under his hands, despite the dirt. Wendy leaned into the touch, not breaking eye contact. Her mouth was open slightly, and he could see her two front teeth through the lips. 

Luke brought his face closer to hers; her eyes relaxed their wide-eyed gaze and she smiled slightly, recognizing the gesture. He leaned steadily towards her, then pressed his lips against hers. 

He thought he might die with pleasure at the sensation of lips upon lips. Wendy whimpered and pressed her body into his; Luke was abruptly filled with intense desire. 

"I wish we had time to have sex one last time," he said into her lips. 

She giggled slightly. 

"What?" 

"Your breath smells," she said, looking up at him with open-eyed mischief. 

He snorted. "Even in death, I can't clean my teeth enough for you, can I?" 

She shook her head, the smile turning upside down even as she laughed. "Oh, God, I don't want to let you go!" 

All throughout their conversation, the pull from above had been growing steadily more intense, and now it was almost unbearable. 

_Now. Come._

"Wendy," Luke said. "Wendy, I can't stay any longer. I love you, always remember that. I love you, I always will, as long as I can -- I don't know what's going to happen now -- and if you're happy with Severus, well, then --" 

He had to say it, he had to. 

_Your time is up. Come._

It was so painful to stay, but he had to tell her, so she could move on. He couldn't leave without letting her go. That wouldn't be fair. 

"As long as he makes you happy. That's all that's important. Be happy." 

_Come._

"Luke --" she began, eyes wide, face full of conflicting hope and despair. 

And then he felt his body explode into a million tiny parts. Just as Wendy cried, "I love you," his awareness collapsed, expanded to embrace the entire world, and then Luke knew no more. 

_As long as he makes you happy._

As Luke's body splintered into a fine golden mist, Wendy closed her eyes against the pain. 

Around the hall, people were talking, marvelling at the recovery of Rigel, crying over Albus' death, asking each other questions, helping each other; house-elves were appearing with cracks and pops, bearing trays of juice and crackers. The professors were deep in discussion, figuring out how to manage the rest of the evening. Wendy didn't care about any of it. All she heard was _As long as he makes you happy._

And here came Severus. She couldn't face him, she couldn't -- and then he was in front of her. 

"Are you okay?" he asked. 

"That is the stupidest thing you have ever said," she said calmly, and turned away from him. She needed to help the other professors. 

Severus grabbed her by the arm. "Let go of me!" she demanded. 

"What's wrong?" he asked. 

"What's wrong?" She gazed at him in disbelief. "Luke has just -- died, for the second time, I might add, and you ask me --" The sobbing had started again. She was so sick of crying, so sick of being sad and alone. 

"Wendy," he said, awkwardly and gently, giving her a little shake, "Wendy, I'm still here for you." 

Wendy breathed very hard for a moment, then said raggedly, "I need time, I need space." She looked over to the other teachers. "We should help," she said firmly. Removing her arm from Severus' grip, she walked over to the other teachers. 

Minerva had taken charge. 

"... will need to find Fudge, wherever he's gotten to, and tell him about Albus," she was saying. "I don't suppose any of you have seen him?" 

There were murmurs of negation and shaken heads. 

"Well, then," Minerva went on briskly, "we'll manage without him. Hogwarts is not the Ministry, after all. Now, we'll also need to set up Portkeys back. Filius, can you and some seventh-years manage that? I don't think anyone wants to walk home." 

As Wendy approached the group, Minerva caught her eye. While Filius was responding, Minerva sent Wendy a questioning look. Wendy shrugged. Minerva then jerked her head sideways, asking if Wendy wanted to speak or have any announcement made. Wendy shook her head vehemently, and Minerva nodded understandingly. 

"Right, then," she continued. "Filius, you're in charge of the Portkeys. Qui, do we have a -- a count?" Her voice shook just the slightest. 

Quivisianthe Sprout nodded. "Seventeen students," she said. "four Gryffindor, two Ravenclaw, five Hufflepuff, and six from Slytherin. The families know," she added. 

"Can you draft a statement for the _Prophet_?" 

"Of course." 

"I think the thing to do, then, is to send the parents home, along with the students who wish to go now. The elves can send along luggage as needed. Those students who wish to stay - we cannot accommodate parents; if we allow anyone to stay, they'll all want to -- the students may stay in their own dormitories; we should arrange for sleeping bags if they want to sleep in the Common Rooms. Perhaps Hufflepuff might open up its Common Room for the rest?" 

Quivisianthe nodded again. "I'll get some food set up." 

"Thank you," said Minerva. "Then in the morning we'll see about repairs, and perhaps find an explanation for what happened." 

"I'd like an explanation tonight." 

Wendy jumped. Severus had spoken from right behind her, and even worse, everyone had turned to look at him, which meant that she was right in their line of sight. She remained facing the group, as if not looking at him would make his words go away. 

Severus then put his hands on her shoulders. Wendy fought the urge reach up to push him off. She didn't want to make a scene, so she let his hands stay there and tried not to notice that everyone's eyes were flickering from Severus' face to hers to his hands. 

"Severus, you can't ask her to --" began Minerva. 

"What did happen?" asked Calcula Vector, staring at Wendy's face intently. "Apologies for tactlessness, but I thought Luke had died?" 

All of Wendy's energy and stamina suddenly left her. "So had I," she said listlessly. She was too tired to cry. "Please, I don't want to do this tonight." 

Scene be damned, she thought as Calcula opened her mouth to protest. Wendy pushed Severus' hands off her shoulders. "I'm going to bed," she said. "I'm sorry if I seem rude or unhelpful, but I can't stay here." 

She wheeled around, pushed past Severus, and walked through the Great Hall, leaving behind the whispering group of teachers, Severus' startled expression, and the crowd. As she reached the doors, she heard Minerva speaking to the crowd: 

"Your attention, please! All guests need to return to their homes; we have a team here to assist with Portkey production -- your children may accompany you if they..." 

Wendy walked through the crowd, past the bound Death Eaters, and over the rubble of the doors. But when she passed into the entrance hall, she found her feet level with Albus Dumbledore's body. Kneeling next to him was Harry Potter, head in hands, rocking back and forth. 

She could just sneak past him; he wouldn't notice her. Wendy hesitated, then spoke uncomfortably. 

"Hey." 

Harry looked around and up. "Oh -- hi," he said. His face was wet. He unselfconsciously wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Wendy paused a little awkwardly. "Was he like a father to you?" she asked. 

Harry looked at her, tilting his head to one side slightly, to all appearances trying to figure out if she was serious. 

"Not really, no," he finally said. "I hated him last year for never looking me in the eye." 

"That could get annoying." 

"Yeah. He thought Voldemort would try to possess me." 

"And did he?" 

"In a way, yeah." 

"But you're sad that he's gone." 

"Yeah. We depended on him, you know?" Harry finally got to his feet, giving the corpse one last look before conjuring a sheet to cover it. "All of us fighting against Voldemort -- we needed him to keep us together. It's going to be harder to fight without him." 

"Mm-hm," said Wendy, nodding. 

"What happened to Luke?" Harry asked, walking past her to peer into the Great Hall. "Where is he?" 

"He -- he went back." 

"What do you mean?" Harry looked back at her, startled. 

"He wasn't really dead in the first place," Wendy explained tiredly, "and then when Voldemort killed Albus, he -- Luke, I mean -- managed to get inside his head and --" She broke off, taking a deep breath. 

"It's okay," Harry said, waving a hand. "You don't have to tell me now; you're probably dead tired." 

"I am," agreed Wendy. "I want to take a bath and go to bed." 

"Are you sure you want to be alone tonight?" Harry blushed as soon as the words came out of his mouth. "I'm sorry, that must sound --" 

Wendy laughed, surprising herself. "No, it's okay. I know what you mean. I think I'll have Winky keep me company." 

"Oh," said Harry, his face still a little pink. "Okay then. Goodnight." 

He vanished into the Great Hall, most likely in search of his friends, and Wendy made her way slowly up the marble staircase. 

Looking around at the bright whiteness, she noticed here and there drops of blood. _Probably from me running earlier,_ she realized. _When I ran from the hall, and ran into Severus further along the corridor..._

Her focus narrowed so that all she could see were the red droplets against the white marble. The top of the stairway seemed light-years away. Each step took her an age to climb: her legs were heavy, her body tired, and all she wanted to do was sink into Luke's arms and cry for missing him. 

The top of the stairs slowly got closer. He was really gone now. He was really, truly gone now. There were no more miracles to come. He wouldn't come back. (Six more steps to climb.) 

She had run these steps not an hour ago, run from her first murder. She'd killed a man. She'd killed a man, a human being with a wife and a son. A person who'd tried to kill her before, too, but he was still just a man. (Five steps left.) 

What about all those people who had died? Seventeen students were dead. Out of three hundred students, seventeen had died. For a massacre, that was a small death toll, but it was more people dead, more children, more parents who had to accept those horrible words, _My child_ (four steps) _is dead_. Her boyfriend was dead. He was really truly dead. He would not suddenly appear at the top of the steps, smiling, ready to kiss her and take her to bed (three left). 

She was so horny, and it felt totally wrong to be having those feelings when Luke -- her breath caught -- was dead and she should be mourning but all she wanted to do was get laid and she knew Severus would do anything for her but she wanted Luke, not Severus (two more) but Severus was there for her, he would do anything for her, _he loved her_ (one more step to go, just one) but if she went to Severus, would she ever go home again? But she had no home... 

"Wendy!" 

And there he was again. Wendy sagged, hanging onto the banister for support. If she let go she would fall. 

She could let go. She could fall down the steps, she could fall for Severus, she could fall into the gathering blackness. 

There were footsteps up the stairs behind her. She needed to run away, escape from him, because if she spoke she would cry, and she was tired of crying, she was so tired (just one more step!) but her feet wouldn't move, and the footsteps got louder and louder, and then Severus was right behind her. 

"Here, let me help you." 

"I don't want your help," she tried to say, but the words didn't come out. 

Severus hooked one arm under her shoulders, then reached around and put his other arm under her knees. Next thing she knew, she was being carried along the corridors, the paintings making comments that didn't reach her brain. 

"Let me down," she mumbled. 

"I'm not going to leave you alone. You shouldn't be alone." 

"I don't need you," she protested, and pushed weakly against his chest. But she couldn't get free, and she didn't have the energy to struggle. 

In a few minutes, they were inside her rooms; soon they were in her bedroom, and then Severus was laying her out on the double bed. 

"Shall I start you a bath?" 

"Go away," she moaned. 

"No," he said stubbornly. "Should I start the bath?" 

"No. Go away." 

Severus sat down on the bed next to her knees and placed a hand on them. 

She flinched. "Please don't touch me." 

He didn't remove his hand. "Look," he said, very serious. "I know you've just lost Luke -- again -- and I know this is difficult. Please, let me be here for you. It's the least I can do." 

Wendy didn't want to face the world, but it was intruding on her nonetheless. Wouldn't it just be easier to accept his offer of company? To give in, to let him take care of her? He wasn't Luke, but she'd never get Luke again... 

And now Severus was reaching for the waistband of her pants, to help her undress. 

"Please," he said. "Please let me do this for you." He leaned over, his face very close to hers, and made eye contact. "I love you," he whispered. 

He was right there, waiting to catch her -- all she had to do was fall. 

She closed her eyes and nodded. 

_fin_


End file.
